


Augurey Song

by Furare



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Ambiguous Slash, Angst, Cross-Generation Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Future Fic, Mild Gore, Mystery, Romance, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, Written Pre-Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:31:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 75,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6004327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Furare/pseuds/Furare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty years ago, Harry Potter fulfilled the Prophecy and defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort.  In the time since that terrible battle, the world has moved on, life has returned to its happy pre-war normality, and all is right with wizarding Britain.</p><p>Or, at least, that's what the Ministry would have you believe.</p><p>The truth is that the fall of Voldemort wasn't the end of evil, whatever people might want to think.  Now a new threat is rising, a Dark Lord who controls weapons that even Riddle never dreamed of - and this time there's no predestined hero to save the world.  Maybe cynical ex-Slytherin teachers Draco and Theodore could help the Ministry fight this foe... but after the way they were treated during the War, why on earth would they want to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He Who Knows No History

**Author's Note:**

> _Augurey Song_ was first published on FF.net in November 2005, and thus predates the release of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ by about a year and a half. Obviously it doesn't reference any of the events of that book; the backstory of the war and defeat of Voldemort was very different, as you can probably discern from the allusions and flashbacks in the story.
> 
> It's a complete work, and the first novel-length story of any kind that I ever finished.
> 
> The title is a reference to the Augurey or Irish Phoenix, whose cry was originally thought to be a death omen. It was later discovered that the song of the Augurey foretells rain. (Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.)

The fifth glass of champagne looked more enticing than any of the four previous glasses, but I wondered whether I really ought to drink it. I turned towards Draco to protest that I couldn't, really, but when I saw his face, I realised that he was in a worse state than I was. It was hardly surprising; this was the third bottle we had cracked open, though we had had help with the first two.

"What're we celebrating again?" Draco was definitely drunk. His usual drawl was becoming perilously close to slurring. "Oh, yeah, drinking to the memory of bloody Harry Potter, may he rot in the hell he so richly deserves." He attempted to raise his glass, and instead fell out of his chair. Watching this spectacle, at once both amusing and alarming, I decided that the fifth glass had best remain undrunk. It wouldn't do if we were both incapable of standing – or even sitting – upright. Draco's crystal glass had shattered into thousands of tiny shards as he fell, but he did not notice that any more than the fine champagne soaking into his robes. He just sat sprawled, incoherently abusing his enemy of old.

Not that Harry and Draco had been enemies for some time. Had they still been at odds when the national hero died, nothing on earth would have induced Draco to raise a glass – let alone however many he had actually had – to the other man's memory. But it suited him sometimes, especially when he was drunk, to pretend that the old hatred still burnt bright; some kind of masochistic nostalgia, I supposed.

I cleared up the mess with a wave of my wand, but allowed Draco to continue to sit about untidily, muttering to himself. It was a sad and startlingly pathetic sight. For much of my twenties I had been confronted with a similar spectacle on a fairly regular basis, and seeing him the same now was not so much embarrassing as deeply painful. Thinking of those days, so long ago now, when we had last drowned our sorrows so dramatically, reminded me cruelly that we were no longer young.

But whatever the intervening years had done to me, they had been kind to Draco. He had aged gracefully, although it was surely an advantage to him that his hair was not black, as mine was, but the sort of pale white-blond perfect for concealing any hint of grey. His looks were the same as they had been when he was twenty, and his character was considerably improved. It was as if age and bitter experience had killed the spoilt brat he had been and left a more mature, if sardonic, man in his place.

His sarcastic tongue had occasionally caused people to compare him to Snape, our old Potions Master, and while it was certainly possible to do so, I doubted that Draco would have welcomed the comparison. There were certain similarities between them, to be sure. They had both suffered considerably, one way or another, at the hands of their families; they had both been branded with the Dark Mark and been treated with great suspicion because of it; neither had ever known, really, how to socialise normally, or how to treat other people as their equals.

The present Potions professor separated himself from the past one, however, in one important way. Whatever else Draco was, or had once been, he had never once acted as if the world somehow owed him something. He had never pretended to be hard done by, although gods knew his life had been hard enough. He did not take his own soul's agonies out on others. He was, thankfully, sensible enough to realise that, although it was over twenty years since the war that had blighted our world, there were still few whose lives had not in some way been affected by it, few indeed who had no scars, physical or psychological, from that last bitter conflict.

For all this sober maturity, however, Draco was the same as always when drunk. I looked at him, lying on the stone tiles of his own study, now grumbling about something I couldn't quite make out, and pitied him the hangover he was bound to have the following morning. It would be all the worse because he was no longer used to drinking such quantities of alcohol.

Something not unlike compassion stirred me now, for I leant down and helped him to his feet rather roughly and deposited him back into the chair from which he had fallen. He was heavier than he looked, heavier than he had ever been during our youthful revelry, and I took comfort in that fact, for here, if nowhere else, Draco Malfoy was showing his age.

* * *

I had forgotten how exactly like a bad-tempered bear Draco could be after a heavy night's drinking, and the reintroduction was unwelcome, at best. He did not choose to leave his room until just before midday. He came out wearing nothing but a green dressing gown and a particularly fearsome scowl. He did not deign to speak until after he had gulped down half a cup of incredibly strong coffee, and when he did, it was all grunted monosyllables. Eventually, I said, in mock affront:

"Is this any way to treat a guest, Draco?"

He refused even to look shamefaced. "Don't care," he growled. "You're not a guest, anyway; you're a friend."

"That excuses it, does it?" I asked, raising one eyebrow in an almost unconscious parody of Draco himself.

"Yes," he said, simply, and began devouring cold toast. It was at this moment that the door opened and a much younger man stepped into the room, his green eyes apprehensive. Draco looked up. "Well, Dorado?"

His son just looked at him with a mixture of worry and disdain. "You were drinking last night," he said, at length.

"So I was," conceded Draco. "Weren't you? It was a very important occasion; a victory celebration, or some such rubbish." He stopped talking abruptly and glared at his coffee as if it had somehow offended him.

"I'm too young to drink," said Dorado, sniffing. "'And I wouldn't want to anyway. Not that I don't appreciate all the things that the Order – that you – did for us in the war, but I really don't think that all the dead heroes would consider you getting plastered in their memory particularly appropriate." The younger Malfoy had an earnest, pedantic way of speaking that was not unpleasant, but at the present moment grated ever so slightly on my tired and worn nerves.

"Always taking the moral high ground," groaned Draco. His grey eyes were bloodshot and ringed with black, and I could see that now was really not the time to be attempting to teach him any sort of lesson. "It's tradition to get blind drunk for the victory celebrations. Why, Harry Potter himself…"

"Found it necessary to drink himself into a stupor simply to escape the horrors of what his past had been," interrupted Dorado. "What excuse do you have?" I was mildly horrified. If I had attempted to speak so to my father, I would have been given a good clip round the ear. My father… it hurt less to think of him now, removed from him by so many years. He was dead, dead long ago in a battle I barely remembered. For all I knew, I could have killed him myself. I'd thought about that before, and I'd decided that it wasn't worth worrying about. _He_ wasn't worth worrying about. He would have cut me down without compunction, and I was justified in doing the same. It wasn't as if we had ever been close anyway.

"Exactly the same one," said Draco, an uncharacteristically weary look on his face. "If his past was full of horrors, mine is no pleasure trip, I assure you." That was certainly true. He and I were the only two Slytherins from our year left. The war had claimed most, either directly, in battle, like Crabbe and Goyle and Pansy Parkinson, or obliquely, like Blaise, who had hanged himself after being forced by the Dark Lord to kill his own mother.

Dorado looked shocked and slightly wretched, but he was, in some ways at least, a true Malfoy, and he did not apologise. "Anyway, I don't think you ought to still drink so much at your age," he said, again rather irreverently. "What sort of example are you meant to be setting me?"

I spoke now, trying to keep my amusement out of my voice and failing utterly. "Perhaps you ought to lighten up, Dorado," I suggested, smiling. "Out of the two of you, you're the middle-aged man, and your father's the teenager."

He looked slightly pleased, as if I had complimented him. "Well, one of us needs to be mature," he said, scathingly. I thought this a little unfair, but then, it is normal for children to abuse their parents. And since Dorado had no mother, his father got a double helping of teenage scorn. He didn't seem to mind; in some ways, Draco was as indulgent towards his son as his father had been towards him.

"I protest against that," he said now, half-heartedly. "I am mature. Just because I don't treat life as seriously as you always do doesn't mean I'm being childish." Quite the contrary, I thought. It is those who have terrible things in their past who shun seriousness.

"If you say so," said Dorado, only partway convinced. "I'm going to do some studying now; I just thought I'd look in to see if you were alright. I heard some crashing noises last night." This last remark was directed more at me than at his father, but before I could reply, Draco had said:

"Studying again? Don't see why. It's a good few weeks till school yet."

"It'll be the start of the first N.E.W.T. year when I go back," said Dorado, disdainfully. It was impossible not to see why the boy was a Ravenclaw.

"You got very good O.W.L. results, didn't you?" I asked, more to relieve the tension in the room than anything else. He nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes; I got eight Os and two Es; I suppose I could've done better, if it wasn't for Quidditch."

Draco snorted. Sometimes he said that Dorado's skill and enthusiasm for Quidditch was the only thing that reassured him that this was, in fact, his son. "They're excellent results," he said now, shortly. "If I'd got that, I'd have been thrilled. And you're not going to stop playing Quidditch, are you?'

Dorado looked at his father as if the man had gone mad. "Of course not," he said, scornfully, and swept out, no doubt heading back to his room to hide away with a book. Draco looked at the door as it swung shut behind his son, and sighed, deeply. It was the sigh of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Harry Potter had sighed so in the later months of the war.

"Look at him," said Draco, asking the impossible as always. "He's so innocent. I wasn't when I was his age." Nor had I been. Nor, really, had anyone been back then. "And that could all be destroyed." He waved his toast at the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that lay on the table between us. I had read it cover to cover earlier in the morning while waiting for my friend to make an appearance. It was currently closed, and the front page image was a large, black-and-white photograph of Zacharias Smith.

He certainly looked the worse for his forty years of life. His sunken eyes spoke of intense weariness and he was incredibly thin. He had never been to Azkaban; he was not known as the Ministry's greatest failure since Sirius Black for nothing; but life on the run had not been kind to him. He was the reason – or at least, he was part of the reason – why the world was becoming unstable again. It was barely twenty years since we had rid ourselves of Riddle – would the madness never cease?

"We've got the same situation all over again," I said, softly.

Draco shrugged. "We bring all this on ourselves, you know," he said, sadly. "But how many more times must it happen before we realise that?'

There was some truth in what he said. If it were not for prejudices inherent – and often encouraged – in the wizarding world, madmen like Smith would never get anywhere. Their particular brand of homicidal insanity only appealed to the ordinary people that followed them because the followers themselves chose to believe that they were superior to the rest of creation.

"Will we ever?" I asked now. I did not like to be pessimistic, but sometimes it was unavoidable, even sensible. "I mean, it's not as if this lot are even original. We're repeating our mistakes almost exactly."

"History repeats itself," breathed Draco. "The first time is a tragedy, the second is farce."

"What about the third, and fourth, and fifth, then?" I asked, irritated. Now was no time to be quoting Marx.

Draco's shoulders sagged. "I don't know," he admitted. "Wizards seem to have plumbed depths of stupidity that Muggle philosophers cannot fathom." This was so unlike Draco that I just stared at him. He was not normally fatalistic, nor so derogatory about wizard-kind. He did not usually look so defeated, nor did he like to say that he did not know anything.

"Some of the old prejudices must surely die this time," he said, after a moment. "Look at Smith; a Hufflepuff as the chief lieutenant of a crazed Dark Lord. As far as I know, that's never happened before. The Death Eaters were mainly Slytherin, but Viper's lot come from all over." Were it not all so terribly serious, I might have laughed at the melodramatic, clichéd name that Smith's master had chosen to give himself. He seemed to suffer from something that had never afflicted Lord Voldemort – lack of imagination.

"The whole Slytherins-are-evil mindset died a while ago," I said, reflectively. "But treacherous Hufflepuffs? No one would ever have imagined such a thing. No one would have believed that Smith would turn, when we were back at school. I wouldn't believe it now, if I didn't know that it was the truth."

"I never believed," Draco said, very quietly, "that this would happen again. When I helped fight Riddle, I never imagined that my own son's schooldays would be overshadowed by evil as mine were. Although Dorado will never have to make such hard choices as I had to." He looked, for that one moment, very old indeed. He was only forty, but for an instant he looked as old as the world itself. It was a frightening expression to see in such familiar eyes.

"He might," I said, darkly, and from the look in Draco's eyes I knew he had understood my meaning.

"You don't think that," he said, quickly – too quickly.

"No," I admitted. "I don't think that. But then, I didn't think that a Hufflepuff could be a traitor, either."

He looked at me sharply, and there was pain, terrible pain, in his eyes. I tried to imagine a similar look in the cold eyes of Lucius Malfoy, contemplating his son's treachery, but I failed. Whatever else Draco was, he was not his father. The two were nothing alike – had never been alike – save in looks.

"Don't say that," he said, and his voice was infected with a hint of pleading. "It could never be true. Never! I know the mind of my own son."

No doubt my own father had never suspected that I would not follow him into the service of the Dark Lord. No doubt Draco's father would never have imagined that _his_ son would rebel. We might think of Smith as a traitor, but there were men alive who still thought of us as such. Breaking faith with evil is disloyal just as much as betraying good. Many people could not see that. I did, and so, whether he would admit it or not, did Draco. How could we not?


	2. Amortentia

It was over three weeks before I saw Draco again. This was unusual, but not unexpected; my trip to India had long been arranged for the latter part of August. It had been too long since I had travelled abroad, widening my experience of the ancient dark arts. My years as a curse breaker in the Middle East receded further into the past with each passing term, and I was anxious not to forget, not to become complacent, not to become nothing more than a dusty lecturer teaching from books.

I returned to Scotland on August 28th, which might have been cutting it rather fine for the start of the autumn term. Certainly Minerva sounded rather disapproving when she asked me about my journey, but that might have been because, even after nearly thirty years, she was still apprehensive about Defence teachers going abroad to gain "practical experience". I felt a little guilty when speaking to her; as her deputy I ought to have been at the school earlier, to help with preparations for the term. But it was not as if she needed me; she had taught there for well over fifty years, and none knew better than she how it ought to be run.

After my run-in with the headmistress, I headed straight for the dungeons. Surprisingly hot-blooded despite his paleness, Draco spent twenty three hours in the day in the cool caverns under the castle. Unless something drastic had happened, I knew that I could find my friend there. I was not wrong. He was in his office, bent over a large cauldron from which pearly steam was beginning to rise in spirals.

The office and rooms beyond had once been Snape's, but there was no trace of the man left in them now. Draco could not bear to be reminded of his former professor; the memories were too closely associated with an episode of his past he would much rather forget. It was bad enough to be plagued by dreams; it would be intolerable to have concrete reminders flitting about his vision like malignant Thestrals. So we had gone through the rooms, painstakingly removing everything that had ever belonged to our old teacher and consigning it all to the flames.

Draco looked up from the cauldron, hearing my approach. "Well, Theodore, and how was India?" he asked, his thin lips curling into something not unlike a smile.

"It was great," I said. "You would have hated it." That was true; Draco liked a comfortable life and had never been able to understand my enthusiasm for international travel, particularly if it involved hiking or staying in cheap, foreign hotels. "There were mosquitoes in the dining room, and you know how much you hate that sort of thing."

Draco shuddered. "You're right," he said. "I _would_ have hated it. I'm a stay-at-home sort of person, myself. But it sounds right up your alley. You seem to enjoy being bitten by bugs of all kinds and going out on expeditions, and sleeping in tents." His face was set in an expression of well-bred disgust.

"You might have been interested in some of the things I found," I said, casually. " _Very_ interesting dark artefacts they have out there, you know." But Draco was not so easily drawn. The potion he was currently brewing claimed, for the moment, anyway, more of his attention than I did. I peered into the cauldron. "What is it?"

He looked up, smirking wickedly. "Shame on you, Theodore, surely you can't have forgotten our N.E.W.T. potions classes?"

"There was rather a lot going on at the time," I remarked, dryly. Draco looked stricken for a moment, and I wished I could take back the words – it had not been a happy or an easy time for him, either.

He composed himself quickly, and said, "You must remember it; old Slughorn said it was the most dangerous potion in the room, and we laughed at him."

I stared at the potion. Now that I looked, I could _see_ the mother-of-pearl sheen; I could smell old books and chocolate and sea-spray. "Amortentia," I breathed.

"The most powerful love potion in the world," agreed Draco. "And the hardest one to get right. For that reason, it's not popular among silly young witches trying to ensnare some unfortunate soul. With Amortentia, they'd be more likely to poison the object of their affections than to actually have the desired effect." He looked slightly smug; his potion was demonstrably perfect.

"You can't be planning to get the sixth years to make this in their first lesson?" I asked, incredulous.

Draco snorted, dipping a small bottle into the cauldron and filling it with the shimmering liquid. "No," he said. "I doubt they'd be able to do it. It's for the seventh years; they're getting an intensive course on love potions. They're underrated by the snobs who call themselves 'real potions masters' – probably because they appear in a lot of Muggle literature. But Slughorn was right; they're powerful and dangerous and important, and besides, they might come up on this year's N.E.W.T."

I looked at him sharply. Draco was not a conventional teacher - but then, how many teachers at Hogwarts were, or had ever been? He tended to teach whatever he found interesting, or whatever he thought would be beneficial to the students in later life. He did not pay special attention to the exams; still, his O.W.L. pass rate was truly enviable. The children tended to learn things from Draco, even if they really didn't want to. He seemed to have a natural talent for getting under the skin and into the mind.

"You don't really care if it _does_ appear in the exam," I said, matter-of-factly.

He shrugged. "Why should we teach only those things examiners deem important?" he said. "They've got a completely different agenda to mine; I want my students to know _useful_ things and _interesting_ things; they just want to see whether the children can brew something that is colourful, or obscenely complicated." There was a note of dry contempt in his voice. "I want to teach them how to…" His voice tailed off, remembering, "ensnare the senses, brew glory, stopper death…" There was a strange light in his eyes, as though the words had conjured up visions of Paradise. They were Snape's words, but Draco loved potions more than _he_ ever had. I wondered, though, whether my friend even remembered who had originally said that.

I didn't mention it, merely said, "Do you think that teaching them how to brew love potions is really wise?"

He shrugged. "If someone wants to brew a love potion, they'll do it, whether I teach them how or not," he pointed out, reasonably. "At least this way, I minimise the chance that someone gets hurt. You can't give children ideas, Theodore. The intent is already there. All I can give them is the tools." And he was right. Giving someone knowledge would not necessarily corrupt them, spur them on to act.

The potion looked surprisingly innocuous in its glass bottle, but I remembered what Slughorn had said. _When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love._ Love looked so innocent, so soft, so inviting, so pearly, bejewelled and friendly, but it was nothing more than a savage monster. I understood what the old teacher had meant now. I had not believed what love could do to a man until I had felt it first-hand.

Draco noticed my silence. "What's wrong, Theodore?" He asked the question guardedly; there were things that, friends though we were, we seldom discussed, and that part of our past was one of them.

"I was thinking," I said, softly. "Thinking about love. You remember what Slughorn had to say about that?"

"Could I forget?" he asked, grey eyes grave. "Amortentia makes you miserable," he continued, showing his normal level of perceptiveness. "You have never drunk it, but you might as well have." Were we not such good friends, I might have been angry, but I was conscious only of being grateful that he understood me enough that I did not need to use words.

"You know me too well," I said, sadly.

"Everyone knows that particular story," he said, truthfully enough, and I coloured. It was not dignified – it was not very _Slytherin_ – for one's emotional life to be common knowledge. I had never again been as ashamed as I had when I found myself in the _Prophet_ , set by them in some imaginary rivalry against Harry Potter. It had been a large factor in my decision to travel abroad and accept the job in Saudi.

"Not everyone knows all of it. Not like you do." There were not many people who knew that my love had not died along with the publicity. Draco, who had a divorcee's contempt for the finest emotion, was one of these few.

"You should be grateful of my discretion," he smirked, but there was no malice there. I trusted him. "I don't pretend to understand how you, who I had always thought to be so cold, so isolated, could love so long and so true in the face of such adversity," he said now, his voice low. "But I respect it, and am suitably humbled, as a man who cannot keep a wife for more than a year should rightly be." I could not tell if he was joking or not, but I hoped that he would not joke about such a thing as this.

I was uncomfortable with this conversation, so I changed the subject. "How has Dorado been while I was away?"

Draco recognised my discomfort, and instead of pressing the advantage, as he might once have done, he acquiesced to the new topic. "He makes me feel stupid," he said, bluntly. "He spends more time studying than I used to spend plotting how to best Potter."

I whistled. "That must be a lot," I murmured. It was a joke, now, but at the time, Draco's obsession with his rival had been deadly serious. "But it must pay off, mustn't it, given his results? And he's very intelligent; he'll get a good job when he's older, bring honour to the Malfoy name."

"Heaven knows, we need it," Draco said. "Our name's been less than mud since my father…" He shuddered, involuntarily. Even the most hardened of men cannot be immune to watching the wraiths of hell suck out his father's soul. That day had changed my friend forever. "Since he… died, we've been worth less than the meanest Muggle. They took everything from me. Everything I've got is there because I worked for it, not because hundreds of generations of pureblood ancestors bequeathed it to me."

It had been the most terrible injustice in the Ministry's history, the day they had declared Draco's money and ancestral home forfeit because his father was a known Death Eater. They had only been trying to cut funds away from the Dark forces, but all they had succeeded in doing was ruining a young man who had sacrificed near enough everything to help them. The only reason he had not turned against them after that was because he couldn't; without the Order's protection, he would have been mincemeat, and he knew it. He had received an Order of Merlin after the war – as had I – but it had never compensated him for the loss of his family home and gold.

"Maybe it's better that way," I said, quietly. "You aren't the untouchable aristocrat you once were, and neither is Dorado." Without money, the hitherto untapped power of Draco's personality had been forced to rear its head. Rich or poor, snobbish Malfoy or teacher, he was still a force to be reckoned with.

"I suppose you consider that a compliment." He was smiling; there was no ill-will. "Even if you don't, I shall."

"Some things are unchanging," I said. "And one of them is your ego, Draco." He snorted and gave a little bow. As he did so, his sleeve caught on the little bottle of Amortentia and it fell over, spilling its contents across the table. There was a very soft hissing sound and a faint, salty smell.

Draco cursed. "That stuff tarnishes tables!" He reached for his pile of old newspaper pages and started to spread them across the table surface. Noticing my quizzical expression, he explained, "Amortentia doesn't react well to having spells cast on it. In essence, it _is_ a spell, and a powerful one at that, so you can't clean it up magically."

"Inconvenient," I remarked. Then I noticed that one of the pages currently soaking up the love potion carried a smirking photograph of Zacharias Smith. I indicated this to Draco, and said, "How ironic, watching the turncoat drown in love potion."

"Do you think he knows how to feel love?" asked Draco, suddenly, watching as the little man in the photograph began to flail uselessly at the encroaching liquid. "Do you think that's the difference between us and them?"

I shrugged. "Who said there was an 'us' and 'them'?" I said. "We're all just people, and all people can love. Maybe," I continued, allowing my imagination free rein, "Smith is the way he is because of love. It can destroy a man, you know, if he is weak enough to let it."

The Amortentia crept slowly across the desk, steaming, as Draco laid fresh sheets of newspaper across it. "Obsessive love is insanity," he said, solemnly. "This potion is on a par with the Imperius curse, and yet it is completely and utterly legal." He watched the pages begin to curl at the edges as the volatile potion soaked and steamed away.

The crisis over, Draco waved me out of his office and through into his more comfortable sitting-room. It was a very green room – the chairs, the walls, the candles were all different shades of green. It was the sort of room one might expect an ex-Slytherin to occupy. There was a shade of the scholar to it as well; there was a very large bookcase along one wall, filled with large texts relating not just to potions but to any other part of magical theory that had appealed to him. It was a room at once interesting and relaxing; I often felt more at home here than in my own office.

I sank gratefully into one of the well-stuffed armchairs while Draco went over to the drinks cabinet and poured out two generous glasses of brandy from a crystal decanter. He might no longer be wealthy, but he still had his expensive tastes. He brought the glasses over and passed me one and I accepted it, sipping gently at the rich, warming liquid. It was very good quality, but then I had never expected anything less from him.

"Should you really be drinking?" I asked him now. "I mean, Dorado warned you against over-indulging."

"As if one glass of brandy is over-indulging!" exclaimed Draco. "And that boy is too rude for his own good. One of these days, I shall have to do something about him." He said that sometimes, but it never came to anything. He was far too fond of his son to reprimand him for his irreverence. Suddenly, his face became clouded, and he said, "I suppose, while you were in India, you didn't hear any news from England?"

"No." A horrible thought struck me. "Has something happened, then?"

"There was a rather high-profile murder, for which our mutual friend Smith claims credit," he said, stiffly. He must have seen my expression, because he said, "It was no one we know. The victim was quite major, in his way, at the Ministry."

"'More murder?" It had been a while since the last political killing. I had hoped that there would not be another. I had always known that hope would be in vain. "I suppose it was only to be expected. They aren't people who will stop before they get what they want. It's almost reassuring, in a way. After all, if we cannot trust our enemies, who can we trust?"

Draco looked almost amused. "Your mind works in a strange way, Theodore," he said. "But I suppose you're right. It's more worrying when they _don't_ do what we expect that when they do." He stared into the flames in his fireplace. "They mean business, this lot. _We've_ always known that, but, as always, the Ministry are a few steps behind."

"They don't like to panic people," I said, shrugging. It was true. They had never wanted to worry people. They would say anything; deny anything, to be able to pretend that everything was fine in the beautiful rose-tinted world that only existed in their own imaginations.

"Damn them," Draco said it without particular venom or rancour. Anyone who had lived as long as we had and seen as much ended up accepting the incompetence and blindness of the Ministry. It was impossible to do anything else without being driven mad. "People _ought_ to worry when there's something to worry about. No one likes being lied to."

No; no one liked being lied to, but no one ever seemed to appreciate being told the truth. Last time we had had this sort of situation – although this was not as yet so serious – was in my fifth year. No one had wanted to believe the truth then either. It had been so much simpler to call their hero and champion delusional than face the fact that death once again stalked the land freely. As in so many other things, when people are told the truth in war, they cannot help but try to shoot the messenger.


	3. Cold Comfort

The first day of September dawned fair and bright, though surprisingly cold. The enchanted ceiling showed a clear, pale blue Scottish summer sky, but the windows showed the tell-tale trails of an early morning frost. Draco, who normally felt the cold less than most, came to breakfast in the draughty hall wearing an enormous green knitted jumper and sat as close to his coffee cup as possible, as if trying to wrap himself around it.

We had barely finished eating when Minerva stood up to speak. "Today sees the start of another year," she said, in her strict, cold voice that reminded me irresistibly of lemons. 'Soon the students will be on their way here. You may know – you may have heard – that there is a new threat in our world. You may not want to believe it, but this Viper" – her lip curled ever so slightly – "is here to stay and we should not underestimate him, or any of his followers.

"However, to the best of my knowledge, the sanctity of the Hogwarts wards has only been breached once in living memory." Draco shuffled a little and looked uncomfortable. He had a right to. It had been he who had breached them. He might have come to regret his actions and their terrible consequences, but the deed still weighed heavy on his mind. "So we should be safe enough here. That is the line we shall take with parents. It will take an exceptional circumstance indeed to cause the closure of the school." And yet it had been nearly closed twice during the space of five years, back when I had been a student.

"What I am saying to you," the Headmistress continued, "is that, to all intents and purposes, this is just another term at Hogwarts. We shall continue to act as if that is the case. But we, the staff, must be vigilant. We must watch for the signs that will tell us that disaster is coming." Perhaps it was a shame that we had no Divination teacher any more. Minerva had never had any patience with the subject, but perhaps it was not quite so much of a fraud as she believed. There were such things, after all, as genuine prophecies.

"If you see anything or hear anything that might lead you to believe in any such threat, you should report this to me, or if I am not available, to Theodore." She indicated me with a movement of her head. "We will listen. We are not the Ministry; we will not believe you mad simply for telling us the truth."  I certainly would not. I had seen enough of war to know that the truth was never simple, and that those who foretold doom were seldom the ones who were mad.

Seeing the slightly dumbstruck expressions on the faces of her staff members, the Headmistress smiled thinly. "It is not as bad as all that, you know," she said. "It may never be. We need to take precautions. That is all. There is no need for anyone to panic, much less any of the teachers. As I said before; here, we will be safe."  Draco shifted uncomfortably again. "When the students arrive, I shall say the same to them as I have to you.

"But I do not wish to worry anyone. Foolish as it would be to bury our heads in the sand, as the Ministry seems wont to do, it would be equally foolish to cause anyone to panic before there is good reason. I would not like to spread alarm and despondency unduly." She paused, and then looked at me and addressed me directly. "But perhaps it is a good thing that you have just been away gathering experience, Theodore," she said, a dark look in her stern eyes. "I have a feeling that good quality defence teaching will be of great use in the near future." And then, having very thoroughly confused us all, she left the Hall.

Naturally, when we had all got over our consternation at her rather unusual start-of-term address, we all began to speak at once. "She is more enigmatic than Albus ever was," said old Professor Flitwick, his voice slightly awed.

"Surely not," put in Draco, incredulously. "I never thought such a thing were possible. Anyway, I didn't think her speech so very enigmatic. It showed a lot of good sense. I mean, between the Ministry and the _Prophet_ we haven't had much concrete information, have we? We need to know what Hogwarts is going to do in the face of this new threat."

"It does not really _feel_ like a threat," said the fair-haired Arithmancy teacher, Flora.  "If it weren't for the fact that people have actually died, I would say that this Viper was nothing more than an amateur. It… I mean, none of it seems _real_ , does it? If people weren't dying, it might all be some big Dark Lord parody or something. It just feels _staged_ , not like a threat at all."

"You may have something there," murmured Dennis, our rather absent-minded Herbology professor. While we agreed with him that Flora might have stumbled onto something important, none of us could say what that something might have been.

On sunny days, even cold ones such as this, the Hogwarts grounds looked beautiful. The school looked almost the same, in fact, as it had during my student days, despite all that had happened in between. Life here went on, whatever happened in the outside world. It had been that way for over a thousand years, and I did not think that Viper would succeed where Riddle had failed. It was not worry over the school's security that had me standing by a large window, brooding over the sight of the glistening lake, but simple, pre-term concerns.

I was interrupted in my musings by Flora, who wasted no time in getting to her point. "Do you believe we are in danger, Theodore?"

I stared at her a moment. Flora Dagworth had never seemed to me the sort who would be easily flustered, but she looked now as though she was. She was a young woman – about thirty two or three – and always seemed almost frighteningly intelligent. She was too business-like to be thought of as feminine. I had never considered that she might have any emotions at all, let alone that she might be one to succumb easily to fear.

Eventually, I said, "I should not like to say no."

"What do you mean?" She was definitely nervous; her unusually abrupt manner told me so.

"I wouldn't like to say that, in case I was wrong," I explained. "It is better to be over-cautious than complacent."

"You Defence experts!" she snorted. "It's always 'constant vigilance' with you!" I flinched slightly at the phrase; it held painful memories. "No; what do _you_ think personally – are we in danger?"

"I agree with you," I said, slowly. "I think that Viper is a distinctly stagy character. Were it not for the deaths I would say it were all a joke. I don't know exactly why, but he feels unreal. He runs true to type, but maybe a little bit too much so. And because I agree with you, I am all the more inclined to think there may be danger."

Flora gasped. "Why do you say so?" Her large, honey-brown eyes were fixed on me, almost desperately willing me to take back my words.

"Because if it is true that he is a stage villain, playing a part, he will never stop because he will never be satisfied," I explained. "And if the whole pure-blood obsession is merely a front, we are faced with an enemy whose aims and desires we do not know. That," I said, solemnly, 'is always very dangerous."

She stared. "I had thought you might say that," she said now, her voice once more her own, pleasant, composed tones. "I thought you might, though I hoped you would not. Still, we have the wards."

I looked at her, pitying her for her naivety. "Those same wards were once bypassed by the ingenuity of a sixteen-year-old boy," I told her, and then walked away, leaving her with her worries by the open window.

* * *

Darkness fell over the undulating Scottish landscape as the Hogwarts Express swept into Hogsmeade station. I stood at the castle doors, watching the Thestrals tow the carriages up the driveway, while keeping an eye on the lake, where the first years battled with their tiny boats to be rewarded with their first impressive glimpse of the school. I smiled. We would always keep that ritual. I could not imagine a better way to strike awe into the hearts of the children on their first approach to the castle.

The second to seventh years were filing in through the doors, past me and into the Great Hall. Some of them greeted me on their way past, most of them members of my own house, Slytherin. I spent a few moments in conversation with the House Quidditch Captain, a tall boy with spiked dark hair and a pleasant, if slightly guarded, expression. I also spared a nod for a much smaller boy with a rather dirty face; though he was a Gryffindor, he nodded back and smiled – his mother and I were old friends.

I turned back to look out into the rain-streaked night, and saw that the first years had docked their boats fairly neatly on the Hogwarts side of the lake. I prepared my best authority figure face and waited for them to come closer. I didn't exactly _like_ frightening the new students before the Sorting, but it was tradition. For over nine hundred years, eleven-year-old children had been shaking in their boots waiting for the verdict of a tattered old hat, and I would not be the one to break that tradition.

The children filed in, soaking from the drizzle, nervousness visible on some of the faces in front of me. I saw a little girl I thought I recognised; she was Terry Boot's daughter, I realised after a moment. I hadn't seen the Auror for a good few years, but this girl had many of the features I remembered. He was one of the few people I had known at school who was not either dead or disillusioned. It would take more than family life and fighting Dark wizards to destroy Terry's indefatigable enthusiasm.

I stepped forwards and there was instant silence among the ranks of the first years. I wondered briefly if I was really such a fearsome figure as all that. But then, as I recalled, the newcomers were so jittery that even a kitten emerging from the shadows would have frightened them into hysterics. And I, having fought the forces of darkness as a teenager and won, was certainly no kitten. In my first year, Minerva had stood there and terrified the life out of me. It was one of the duties of the Deputy Head. I was much younger than she had been then, but the present faculty was one of the youngest Hogwarts had ever seen. Probably there were not enough older men and women left who were fit or able to teach.

"Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," I intoned, solemnly, while trying not to laugh at the sound of my own voice shaping the pompous words. I decided to inject some of my own personality into my pre-Sorting speech. "In a minute, you will go on into the Hall and be Sorted into your Houses. As I am sure you already know, the Houses are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each has its own merits, except perhaps for Gryffindor." I paused, watching the amazement on the children's faces, and laughed lightly.

"I am the Head of Slytherin House," I explained, smiling in what I hoped was a benign, welcoming fashion. "There is a certain rivalry between my house and the Gryffindors, but nothing serious." Not as serious as it had once been, I added, silently. We don't try to kill each other any more. We hate each other still, but we conceal it better. "As I was saying, each House has its own qualities, and the Hat will put you in whichever house it feels suits your personality best. Now, follow me, and we will find out where you belong." I heard some nervous gasps from my audience.

I led them up through the already packed Hall towards the staff table, where I conjured a three-legged stool from nowhere, and received the Sorting Hat from Minerva. She nodded at me and smiled, and I set the stool down and placed the hat on top of it. No sooner had I let it go than the tear near the brim opened and it began to sing. The first years all seemed completely amazed. The song was much the same as it had always been, summarising the qualities required for each house. There were no dire warnings, no stern advice.

I felt the relief seep through me. It had not yet come so far that the Hat saw fit to warn us. That meant that the school could not be in danger, didn't it? I remembered the words from my fifth and sixth years as if they had been etched on my heart. Those had not been good times for me. My father, after being _normal_ for so long, had begun leaving the house at odd times; my grandfather had shut himself away in his room, occasionally shouting down the stairs how disappointed he was in his son. I had only been fifteen at the time, but I had known what was going on – known that my father's master was back from the all but dead – just as I had known, later, that my grandfather did not die a natural death.

I realised that people were staring at me, waiting for me to fulfil my task of reading out the names. I shook my head. I was getting old. I was wallowing in my memories and letting the past distract me from the present. I unrolled the scroll of names that I held in my hand, raised it to eye height, and began to call out the students, one by one. Some of them looked scared, others looked more confident, but perhaps they just hid their nerves well.

I read out a couple of names before I came to, "Boot, Caroline." She came forward. I had been right about the girl; she _was_ Terry's daughter. I wondered about her. Her father had been a Ravenclaw, as was her brother, but it was anyone's guess where she would be. She sat down. I lowered the hat. We all sat in silence for a few moments, watching the girl. I noticed that her face was slightly contorted, as if she hated what she was hearing. I knew why. My own Sorting had been similar.

 _The insidious voice in my head said: "You know there is no other choice. I can see that you do. You_ are _a Slytherin, and you cannot deny what you are. It's all here, in your head. Slytherin will suit you well."_

_"No, not that," the shadow of my former self pleaded with the Hat. "I don't want to go there. My father is a Slytherin, and I don't want to be like him."_

_"Then you do not have to be," said the Hat, solemnly, comfortingly. "You still have your choices. If you wanted to be like your father, then you could be, even if I placed you in Gryffindor. If you do not want to be, making you a Slytherin will not force your hand. You will do well in Slytherin; you could be great, respected, admired." I wavered. The Hat saw that, and it knew. "You see? But take heart, there is great potential to do good in you, although I put you in-"_

"SLYTHERIN!" For a moment I did not know if the voice was in my imagination or if it was real, but then I saw Caroline Boot remove the Hat from her head and place it on the stool, advancing on the Slytherin table as if under a death sentence. I exchanged a meaningful look with Draco, who just shrugged. I felt a strong sense of déjà vu, and I wanted to shout after her that Slytherin was not a bad house, really, but there would be time for all of that later. After all, I was now her Head of House.

I returned to the list. "Carver, Anthony," I read, and then had to stifle my laughter as a tiny boy chirped and practically ran over to the stool. Definitely _not_ a Slytherin, I thought, shaking my head slightly. The Hat confirmed my suspicions. "GRYFFINDOR!" it roared to the Hall, and the small boy almost skipped over to his new House table, shining with pride at being chosen by the Lion's house.

Once the Sorting was over I made my way back to the head table and sat down between Draco and Minerva. The Headmistress did not make her big speech; merely welcomed the students and announced the feast. This was wise; there is no audience less attentive than school children with empty stomachs. A low hum of muffled conversations spread over the hall, though we teachers were as quiet as ever; we preferred to eat and to watch rather than to speak.

I moved my eyes over to the Slytherin table, casting a glance at Dorado Malfoy – who appeared to be conversing rather passionately with a pigtailed girl – on the way. Caroline Boot was sulking. The other girls on her table were exchanging glances, and I wanted to tell the girl to accept their offers of friendship. Members of our House did not easily forgive a snub – she could be condemning herself to a lonely, miserable life at school if she did not at least try to be pleasant. I pointed this out to Draco, who said:

"It's not really your concern, Theodore, unless you've become too Gryffindor for your own good. You can't care about _every_ student."

"But I know Terry…" I began, wretchedly.

"Exactly!" said Draco, triumphant. "It would be favouritism to do anything about it!"

I appealed to Minerva. She looked up from her shepherd's pie and said, "Perhaps it would be best for you just to put her mind at rest. The duties of the Head of House involve comforting as well as punishing." She looked right at Draco as she said this, and I wondered if that was why I had been made Head of Slytherin instead of him. He looked a little mulish and resentful, but said nothing. I stood up, eager to escape the uncomfortable atmosphere of the staff table, and made my silent way down to talk to my most reluctant addition.

"Hello, Caro," I said to the girl, remembering her now as the small, pale faced shadow I had seen the last time I was at her father's house. "Why the long face?"

"How can I write and tell Dad that I'm a Slytherin, Professor Nott?" she wailed. "He'll be angry!"

I felt irritated by this girl. She was a throwback to another generation, when it was shameful to be a Slytherin. I knew full well that Terry Boot would not be angry about his daughter's House. He liked me and Draco, and knew that it was foolish to judge someone by his Hogwarts house. As an Auror, he had had a concrete lesson in the form of Zacharias Smith, the turncoat Hufflepuff.

"There's nothing wrong with being a Slytherin, Caro," I said, slightly more coldly than I had intended. "Nothing at all. I am a Slytherin, and your father likes me well enough." This was ridiculous. How could this girl carry the old prejudices, still intact within her eleven-year-old mind?

"Viper was a Slytherin, wasn't he?" she asked, her eyes widening in fear.

I shrugged. "How does anyone know?"  With a slight hint of malice, I added, "From what _I've_ seen, I'd say he's more likely to be a Hufflepuff than anything else." She looked at me dubiously. "Tom Riddle was a Slytherin, I'll grant you that, but there's more than one type of Slytherin. You won't suddenly become 'evil' because the Hat put you here. You still have choices, you know. The choices you make are more important than your House." The girl seemed puzzled still. I sighed, and said, "Anyway, don't be unfriendly. You should never reject a hand held out in friendship, especially if it's the hand of a Slytherin." I forced away the mental image of Draco extending a hand to Harry Potter. Who knew what would have happened had that hand not been rejected?

Caroline just nodded, dumbly, and I felt exasperated at her. She would not survive in Slytherin if she maintained that attitude. I saw the girl next to her turn to her excitedly as I left, doubtless asking her how she was already on such good terms with the Slytherin Head of House. To my relief, I saw her respond. I did not know why I cared so much. It wasn't as if Terry Boot would blame me if his daughter had no friends. But something about her had reminded me of what I had been like, so many years ago. An alien emotion had prompted me to what was essentially, as Draco had said, a very Gryffindor action. But my mind had been and still was plagued by one recurring thought: if only Snape had done the same for me when I was a first year, how much better could my life at Hogwarts have been?


	4. Hope Over Experience

I stood in front of the mirror in my office, checking to see if I had pinned my cloak straight. I was not normally so vain as to care, but today was the first day of the new school year, and a class of first years awaited me in the room beyond. I aimed to make an impression on the new students. Teaching – my method of teaching, anyway – was as much to do with the style of delivery as the information that was delivered. I wanted my students to respect me, listen to me, even fear me a little.

I never wore black. It would have been too painful. Snape had worn nothing but black, all his life, and I did not want to remind myself or anyone else of him. I did not want to look into the mirror and see a shadow of that traitor. He had been largely responsible for one of the most harrowing experiences of my life, and I had no wish to remember him any more often than I already did. I might look a little similar to him, but I was nothing like him, nothing at all, and I would not have anyone think that of me. I might have the black eyes, but I did not have the black heart.

Today's robes were slate grey and of a light, swirling material. They flowed about my body, disguising the fact that I was too thin for my height and lending me a dignified appearance. Looking in the mirror, even I had to admit that I looked rather striking, especially given my age. Only my eyes gave any indication of what had happened to me, of the terrible things that lay in my past. And even those windows to my soul could not reflect the extent of the horrors I had seen or the scars I had been left with.

I heard noises from the adjacent room. The first years were there, eagerly awaiting their first Defence lesson. I felt, as always, a little sad that they should have to be taught how to defend themselves against dark magic; I had always looked upon the Dark Arts themselves as an interesting academic study, nothing more. To think that there were those who would use them, and use them on _children_ , never failed to make me feel slightly sick.

Exactly on time, I swept through the connecting door and down into the classroom. A sudden hush swept over the room as the students stared up at me. I wondered, idly, if I was really that frightening. I continued until I stood just in front of my desk, where all of the children could see and hear me perfectly. I was ready to give my course introduction talk. I sometimes thought that it might be a little too dramatic, but it was meant to be powerful. This was something I wanted them to _remember._

"Welcome to your first Defence Against the Dark Arts class," I declared, my voice carrying over the entire room despite its low volume.  "In this room you will learn the most important magic there is; how to defend yourself against attack, whether your assailant be beast or human. This magic has the potential to save your life; I say this with complete confidence, since the techniques I will teach you have saved mine many times over." There was a hushed murmur spreading through the room, and I dispelled it with a wave of my hand.

"I, like so many people my age, fought in a war before you were born. I learnt the hard way how to survive, sometimes at the expense of other people's lives. I hope none of you ever has to kill another to stay alive, but it is a possibility that cannot – and should not – be ignored. These studies are crucial. There is a chance that the world may become unstable again. There has never been a greater need for attention in this class, so I will not tolerate inattention. Not for my sake, but for yours." They stared at me, eyes round like saucers. Probably they did not understand much of it, but so long as they understood not to fool around in my class, I would be satisfied.

I turned to them again and said, "What do you think that Defence Against the Dark Arts really means?"

A lone hand was raised. I nodded, and a small boy said, "It's about using good magic to fight evil." I was about to say something, correct him, when he continued, "It's about never giving up, even if everything looks hopeless. It means never sinking to the level of your enemy." I stared. Never before had I heard an eleven-year-old speak so. He had summarised quite succinctly the Order's attitude during the war.

"Not exactly," I said, still amazed. "Harry Potter would have answered similarly, however, so you are in good company with your beliefs."  The boy looked completely awestruck by my comparison. I smiled to myself. That name still had power, though its bearer was dead. "No, I will tell you what defence means. Defence means getting out alive. Just that and nothing more.

"Defence is not a well-defined form of magic. In some cases, offence is the best defence, since some curses cannot be shielded. If you ever find yourself in any situation such as the ones I will describe to you in this class, you should do anything you can to get out of that situation alive. Possibly the most important thing I will ever teach you is this: keep your wits about you. If you think the enemy is near, never let down your guard." I did not use the old phrase _constant vigilance_. It was too painful, too inextricably linked in my mind to the war.

I could see that I had the full attention of the class. It was a strangely warming feeling. I had lost so much that there was no way the respect of a handful of eleven-year-olds could ever repay me, and yet somehow I felt, looking at the expressions of awe, as if my sacrifices had not been for nothing. If learning from my experiences saved even one of these young, innocent lives, then I would not have risked life, limb and sanity in vain.

In the first lesson of the first year, I never taught anything, at least, not directly. I devoted that time to sharing my experience of the Dark Arts with the children. It normally went down well. After my speech, any of the basic practical work would have seemed like a terrible anticlimax. Far better to keep them interested by discussing cursed Egyptian tombs, haunted Arabian oil mines and the horrors of my father's library than to bore them with the basics of wielding a wand. I did not tell them much about the war. Children enjoy violent stories, but some things are just too awful to face at so tender an age.

* * *

The long day's work was done. I was tired, but I could not sleep. This would happen to me occasionally; the spectres in my mind would take, for a moment, more solid shape in nightmarish visions that kept me awake. I was well used to it by now. I would usually go down to Draco and ask for a sleeping draught, but I had been up late reading and it was now nearly midnight. I could not disturb my friend's sleep for such a trifle.

Nor, tonight, did I want to. It was perfectly quiet, clear and still; a stargazer's night. It would do me no harm to go for a walk now; perhaps it would help me to sleep naturally. So I wrapped a thick winter cloak over my pyjamas and grabbed my sturdy boots, and set off slowly out through my office and into the third floor corridor. I had barely gone ten paces before I collided with someone in the hall. I looked at the offender and saw, to my considerable surprise, that it was Dorado Malfoy.

"What are _you_ doing out of bed at night?"

He had the good grace to look embarrassed. 'Nothing.' He was lying through his teeth, but that was nothing new in a student who was breaking rules.

"Dorado," I said, seriously. "I know you well enough to know that you do not do anything without a good reason. Hence you must have a good reason to be here now instead of in your dormitory. Would you care to explain what that is?"

He fixed me with a piercing green glare. I wondered if the boy were channelling the spirit of Harry Potter. "I was supposed to be meeting someone."

"I thought as much."  I paused.  "But I didn't think that _you_ normally broke rules." Unlike his father, who had believed that the school rules were for other, lesser people.

"I don't," said Dorado, simply. "But this time it was different. I made a promise, you see, and I have to keep it."

"And I'm a teacher, and I have to make sure that people who turn up where they shouldn't be get punished."  I held his gaze. He looked a little upset. But then, I couldn't really let him off; that would have been unduly favouring my best friend's son. "Five points from Ravenclaw, I think, since it is a first offence, and detention tomorrow night in my office."  His expression brightened; perhaps he had expected worse. "Now, take yourself back to your tower."

"'You're not going to walk me back there?" Dorado sounded far too innocent, and it was easy to see the idea that was in his mind. Maybe he had inherited deviousness from his father after all.

"No."  I smiled slightly as I shook my head.  "You aren't a first year any more. I trust you." Truth be told, I didn't care all that much if he ran off to keep his rendezvous. He had paid for it, after all, and far be it from me to keep a young man from keeping his promises. A promise made to a girl, in all likelihood, I supposed. Only that could explain why the usually obedient Dorado had taken to wandering the school at night. I thought that any girl who had managed to get him to lighten up so far as to break rules would be good for him, and left it at that.

I met no one else on my way down to the Entrance Hall, much to my relief. I did not want to waste time punishing errant students. I wanted, more than anything, to sleep, but if that option was not available to me, at least to enjoy the peace and quiet of the night alone. The necessity of punishing any student found out of bed really spoilt the magic of wandering the school's corridors by night.

I reached the front doors of the castle and slipped outside. I had been right to put the cloak on; it might only be September but it was bitterly cold after dark. The sky was perfectly clear and, because this was deserted North Scotland, the stars could be very clearly seen. I had never been interested in stargazing as a student; it would have been too much like Astronomy homework. Now, though, I knew the constellations sufficiently well to be able to say where in the world I was simply from the arrangements of the stars.

I sat down on the lawn, and almost immediately stood back up again; the grass was damp. Lying on wet ground was all very well for younger people, but I chose to take better care of myself than that. I walked out through the grounds under the bright light of the moon until I came to the old ramshackle hut that in my schooldays had housed the half-giant gamekeeper, Hagrid. No one lived there now. The hut was half-destroyed; there were holes in the roof, perfect for looking through to observe the night sky.

The door hung from its solitary hinge and creaked threateningly as I opened it. The inside of the hut was swathed in dust and grime. On the far side of the room lurked the large shadowed shape of what had once been a bed but now was nothing more than a great ruin complete with tattered gargantuan mattress. I did not go near this – who knew what creatures could have taken up residence in such a promising home? – but rather plumped for lying down, flat on my back, on the rather threadbare but bone dry rug decorating the floor directly under the largest ceiling hole.

Now installed in my own makeshift observatory, I looked out through the gap in the roof. The stars shone as points of white in the deep blackness. I stared, immediately identifying the more major constellations with a dismissive air and moving on to the more obscure patterns. The dog days were no longer with us, but I could still see Sirius, the brightest star in the sky. Further examination revealed the obscure cluster of insignificant stars that had given Draco his name. That was a Black tradition, naming children from the night sky.

Draco had kept to that old tradition in naming his son – Dorado was also a constellation, although not one I had ever seen. I wondered then: if I had a son, what would I call him? I did not believe that I would ever have children. It was not that women did not attract me; merely that one woman had captured my heart long ago and I could never think of being married to another. If I could not have her – and I knew I could not – then I would not have any wife. It was simple as that.

* * *

I hadn't realised that I had fallen asleep until I woke up, freezing and uncomfortable, hours later. I knew that some while had passed, because the eastern edge of the inky sky was beginning to turn pale. I cursed myself for being so foolish. It was not the best idea to go out and sleep in dilapidated huts under the stars, especially not at my age and in this time of instability. I stretched out, trying to remove the stiffness from my slightly twisted, aching limbs.

How long had I lain so, I wondered? Well, there was a way to find out. " _Tempus_ ," I murmured into the stillness of the early morning. It was ten past five. I had slept for perhaps four and a half hours in the cold open air. I cursed myself for a fool and was about to get to my feet and head back to the castle to my bed and comfort when I heard the noise. Somewhere out in the not-quite-darkness, someone was moving. By the sound of it they were not too far from me. I tried to quiet my racing heart, telling myself that whoever it was could not know I was there, but logic was no match for adrenaline.

I got up as quietly as possible, my cold, rigid body protesting at this treatment, and crept over towards the door of the hut. Peering out into the grounds, at first I did not see anyone. Then I did not believe my eyes. All I saw was a flash of dark robes and a head full of long, dark blonde hair, but I knew as if instinctively exactly who it was out there. And I wondered why. Granted, I had no good reason to give for _my_ presence in the grounds, but there is a difference between stargazing at midnight and wandering at five a.m. It seemed like suspicious behaviour. I made a note of it. Then, like the sensible person that, after all, I am underneath, I put the thought to the back of my mind and made my painful way back to the castle, coffee and a warm office.


	5. Fall Like Rain

Some time had passed and many people, more foolish than I, had largely forgotten about the threat of Viper. The last murder had faded in the national consciousness, and what with the Ministry trying to downplay everything as much as they could, it was almost possible to believe that everything was indeed right with the world. I knew better and so did Draco. Men of that stamp do not just give up and go away so easily. We were more worried than heartened by the prolonged silence.

It seemed that we were right to be. There had been no indication that this day would be different from any other. There was no warning of any kind, until Minerva flung open the door of my classroom during a detention, scaring my students half out of their wits. I, too, was shocked and surprised, but I did not show it. It never does for a teacher to start panicking.

"Theodore."  She spoke quietly, and I admired her for the steadiness of her voice. "You might want to come down and help. There's been an attack."

I took one look at her and dismissed the students immediately. To their credit, they seemed too subdued by their shock to run rampant in the corridors. When they were gone, I asked, "Hogsmeade?"

"No, thank goodness," she said. "But it's quite bad enough.  The Macmillan house has been torched."

I swayed as if I had been hit in the face with a Beater's bat. It couldn't be true! Of all the people in the world to fall to Viper's foul hand, it ought not to be her! Trying to hold myself together, I said, "Casualties?"

Minerva looked at me shrewdly. She knew – she had to know – what I was feeling. "None, as far as I know. They Apparated here, so none of them can be too badly hurt." Relief hit my system like a drug and I nearly sagged to the floor with the sudden relaxation of my tensed muscles. "I sent Draco down to the gates to let them in. The house is nearly a hundred miles away, but for some reason people still think of Hogwarts as a sort of sanctuary in times of trouble." As well they might; without inside help Viper could batter the walls of the castle for ever and never reach its occupants.

I left my paperwork on the desk and the classroom in semi-disarray and followed Minerva down to the Entrance Hall. The front door stood open and cold air caressed my face as I reached the bottom of the great staircase. I looked around but I could see nothing out of place, no one who ought not to be there. Flora stood with her back against the ornate banister, her eyes wide and frightened. I wondered why. She had been acting very strange of late; not only was she jumpy but she kept turning up in places where I couldn't think of a good reason for her to be.

I had no time to think about her now, though, because at that moment the open door was thrown back and a dirt smeared tempest of red hair blew into the hall. I started slightly at her sudden appearance, but all other emotions were overcome by the familiar bittersweet pain as Ginny Macmillan flung herself, sobbing furiously, into my arms.

"Oh, Theodore," she sighed through the tears, her head pressed softly against her chest in a way that made my body threaten mutiny. I asked no questions; I just held her, knowing that that was all she wanted at that moment; indeed, it was all she could cope with. In the doorway I noticed Draco looking at me. He raised an eyebrow, smirking insufferably. I just glared at him.

"Ginny," I murmured, running my fingers tentatively through the slightly tangled ends of the rich red hair. She didn't object. I wondered what could have happened to her to get her into this state. I found that a secret part of me was hoping that she had once more been made a widow, and I despised myself for it. I ought not to wish death on a person who had never deliberately harmed me in his life.

To say that Ernie Macmillan had never harmed me at all would be a lie. He had married Ginny; that was enough to make sure that I could never like him. It was she I loved – had loved since I was a teenager and would love forever. It tore me apart inside to think that she could never be mine because she belonged to a pompous, sanctimonious man such as Ernie. I had accepted being passed over for Harry Potter – there were few men who could have hoped to compete with _him_ – but I could never forgive Ernie for taking what I had seen as _my place_.

"Ginny!" She stiffened in my arms. I looked up from her tear-stained face and into the dust-streaked, age-lined face of Macmillan. He was looking at me strangely, as if he suspected me of offering false comfort in an attempt to seduce his wife. Not that the thought had never crossed my mind, but I knew that Ginny would never consent to such a thing, and as such I had never tried.

"Where are the children?" she asked now, letting go of me and taking a step back. The tears had stopped falling. For a moment she had merely been a frightened woman sobbing in the arms of a protector; now she was a fiercely protective mother, and God help those who harmed a hair on the head of her offspring.

"Charity's got Algy," said Macmillan. "They're on their way up."

"Oh," she sighed, pressing her hand to her chest in what could either have been relief or shortness of breath. "Is it… bad, Ernie?"

"Well, the house is a complete write-off," said Macmillan, far too airily for my liking. He did not seem to me to be as devastated as he ought to be. He was, however, a political secretary, and so probably more accustomed than most to delivering unpleasant news to semi-hysterical people. "I think Charity's got a broken arm; she was trying to stop them getting to Algy and part of the wall fell in on her. She's got a few burns as well."

"So have you, Ernie," said Ginny.

"Really?" Macmillan stared at his burnt arm as if he hadn't seen it before. "How on earth did I not notice that before?  You look alright, though, Ginny." He fixed me with a rather nasty glare at this point. I felt the full force of his venomous possessive jealousy, and it almost frightened me. There was something about Macmillan that seemed _not quite right_. It could be because his house had just been destroyed and he had nearly lost his wife and child to the vicious mob, but somehow I didn't think so.

"It was more the shock than anything else," mumbled Ginny, as though ashamed of something. I was a little alarmed to see her acting so. The girl I had known, the woman I loved, would not have flinched to hear her husband call her name, and certainly would not have been cowed by anyone at all. I wondered about Macmillan, I wondered very much indeed.

"Are you okay, mum?" We all turned to see a young girl enter the castle with a boy of about five or six hanging onto the skirt of her robes. Charity Potter had inherited her vivid red hair from her mother and her bright green eyes from her father. She was strikingly pretty in her own right and was said to bear a strong resemblance to her grandmother, Lily Evans. At that moment, however, she looked like nothing so much as a filthy, battered refugee. She was liberally coated in ash and brick dust, and as her step-father had said, both her clothes and her skin had been burnt. She cradled her left arm very close to her chest and looked close to tears.

Ginny looked at her daughter, her horror showing on her face. " _I'm_ fine, Charity, but you look awful!" she cried, her mother's instincts asserting themselves. She made as if to hug Charity, but the girl flinched as her arm was jostled slightly and Ginny retired, abashed.

"I'm _fine_ , mum, honest!" Charity snapped. The raised voices seemed to upset little Algy Macmillan, because he burst into tears. Ginny seized hold of him and swept him up into her arms in an attempt to comfort him. I noticed that Ernie looked a little uncomfortable; as if he felt that everything happening around him was somehow nothing to do with him at all. Charity just looked pale, drawn and exhausted. She looked, to be frank, terrible, and she obviously needed medical attention quite badly.

I stepped forward. "Perhaps you ought to think about getting to the hospital wing." Charity looked slightly contemptuous. I tried again, more diplomatically this time. "Algy might be in shock, and he seems to be rather attached to you, so…" I allowed my voice to trail off suggestively. She snorted at me, but this time, she did not show any signs of objection. "You too, Ginny," I added. "I'd say you all needed a look over."

Macmillan looked flustered. "No, no, I'll be alright," he protested."I've got to wait, in any case. For the Aurors to get here, you know. They might want to… ask questions."

"Probably they will," I said, cheerfully. "But that won't stop you coming upstairs and letting the nurse have a look at you, will it?"

There is nothing more persuasive or more manipulative than a good-humoured person, and Macmillan was forced to comply. Minerva gave me an approving nod as I made my way past her up the stairs, trailed by the injured family. Little Algy was wailing at the top of his lungs. He seemed to be attempting to bring down the school using nothing but his lungs. I wondered if he might be keeping a pair of bellows or a set of bagpipes in his little chest, such was the noise he produced.

The Hogwarts nurse who received us was a far cry from Pomfrey, who had been ruler of the infirmary in my days at school. Sonia Everard was young and brisk and completely inexperienced in matters of war. She simply stared at the casualties for a moment, as if convinced that they were part of her imagination, and then her training kicked in and she bustled over to see what could be done.

Algy was still howling, so she very sensibly looked at him first. "Not a lot wrong with _you_ , young man," she said, smiling. "Lets just clean you up" – she waved her wand and the dirt vanished – "and get you into some clean pyjamas" – she conjured a blue set from thin air – "and if you're good and quiet you shall have a Chocolate Frog." Algy shut up as suddenly and surely as if his jaws had been bound together. Sonia chuckled and went to get a small box from one of her drawers. She tossed this down onto a neat infirmary bed and the little boy practically fell over himself to leap upon it and disembowel the frog-shaped sweet.

"So that's him sorted out," she said now, as Algy ate the chocolate with a rapturous expression on his rather chubby features. "Who's next? Miss Potter?" She looked at Charity, who just shrugged, then winced as the movement disturbed her broken bones. "Let me see," said Sonia, sharply, in a voice that brooked no argument. The wrist was duly examined. "Perfectly clean break. I've seen you much worse after Quidditch matches, Miss Potter, you've been lucky." She brushed the offending area a few times with her wand, and the angle of the wrist suddenly looked a lot more natural. "I'll give you something for the swelling." She bustled around again and emerged from her cabinets with a bottle of a potion that was bright orange, smelled foul and, judging from Charity's expression, tasted worse.

Ginny was pronounced to be practically unharmed, but given an elixir for shock nonetheless. Macmillan, despite his rather vocal protestations that he was perfectly fine, was told that his burns were deep and might be dangerous if left alone. He was attacked with a liberal amount of _Dragon's Breath Burn Salve_ , an unpleasant-looking green paste, and then forced to drink the horrible orange anti-inflammatory potion as well. I noticed that Charity looked rather pleased about that.

Macmillan extricated himself from the clutches of the nurse with some difficulty and then fled back down the stairs 'to see if the Aurors had arrived yet.' I chuckled. The man was a coward, obviously. Either that or he had an inflated sense of his own importance. I knew the Aurors would come when they were ready, and I suspected that that would not be for some time yet. Evidently there was some reason why Ernie Macmillan did not want to stay in the sick bay with his family, but I could not think what that might be.

Charity snorted disdainfully and said, "I really think Ernie's the biggest wimp of us all, Mum."

Ginny admonished her for being so disrespectful, but I could see it in her eyes that she, too, had thought the same thing. Well, I thought, if she had settled for _that_ instead of me… but I was becoming bitter, something I had always tried never to be. The past was the past. Ginny had chosen as she saw fit and it was not for me to question her, much as I might long to. It had been a long time since she had turned me down. Much had happened in between and we neither of us were the same people we had been then.

I remembered what had happened as if it had been yesterday. I had known that during our sixth year Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley had been together. Most of the school had probably known that. I had also been aware that, after Dumbledore had been murdered, they had split up. I hadn't cared much about it, to tell the truth. Teenage relationships break down for little or no reason all the time. I'd never realised that it had ever been something more than that until the day I walked into Headquarters early and found Ginny in tears.

I had been appalled to hear the story. Only a _Gryffindor_ could be so stupid and self-sacrificing. Ginny had always been in danger; she wouldn't stop being in danger simply because she wasn't Harry's girlfriend any more. I couldn't imagine why he had decided it was best, unless he _liked_ having to give up everything good in his life, unless he felt that it was only by self-sacrifice that he could win favour from Fate and destroy the Dark Lord.

After I had comforted her, we became friends. There are only two courses of action to take after you have cried in front of someone; either you befriend them, or you avoid them. To my surprise and pleasure, she chose the former. We grew quite close; we seemed to understand one another very well. Sometimes Harry looked at me in a strange way, as if he was in some way jealous of me. It was exhilarating to think that someone so famous could envy me.

And Harry had gone off chasing Voldemort and his fragments of soul, and some of us had doubted that we would see him again alive. I had been one of those. Whether she would admit it or not, so was Ginny. I didn't know when exactly it was that I fell in love with her. I didn't really remember when I'd first realised how I felt. There was just one day in high summer when Harry had been gone for some months, when no one knew where he was or even if he still lived, when I was crazy enough to sit down, look at her, and ask the question.

_"There's still no news of Harry, then?" Ginny looked not so much frightened as resigned. We both knew that the odds were against him ever coming back, as they were every time he went out._

_"No." I looked at her and wondered if I dared say what was on my mind.  "What… what will you do if he doesn't come back?"_

_She stared. "What kind of question is that?" she cried.  "I'd… I'd be devastated. So would everyone be; he's our only hope, or have you forgotten that?" I felt slightly ashamed of myself and would have left it there had she not said, "Ask something sensible for a change, Theodore."_

_And that was my temptation and my undoing. "If he… well, if he didn't return, would you marry me instead?"_

_"What?" Her mouth dropped open, unflatteringly. I felt my heart drop a few inches in my chest, but I repeated the question. She just looked at me for a few minutes in silence. "I never knew," she breathed, "that you felt like that about me. It's… well, it's flattering, Theo, it's probably the best offer I'll ever get."  She breathed a heavy sigh. "But he_ will _return, you know. He will. And when he does, if I marry anyone, it'll be him. Love's crazy, but then, you know that, don't you?"_

_Yes; I knew that. It was an apology for what could never be. She belonged to Harry Potter; she always had and always would. I'd been a fool to imagine I could change that. But whatever she said, she knew there was a possibility that Harry would die. And if that happened, I'd be there for her. Harry was no future husband; he was the scapegoat waiting to be slaughtered. And when the blow fell, I would be there for her, and sooner or later she would realise what had been obvious to me all along._

_I said nothing of this, merely nodded and said, "Yes, I know. Love makes up its own rules." She smiled faintly, as if pleasantly surprised that I was not making more fuss. She ought to have remembered the house I'd been in at school. Part of being a Slytherin is playing your cards right – and right now I knew that it would be best for me to stick._

I had been young then, and I had been wrong. Harry had survived long enough to savour victory, marry the heroine and settle down to live happily ever after. Except that life is cruel and he died later, in agony, because the only thing he could not fight against and win was his own body. I had loved Ginny then, too, but I could not look upon the face lined with suffering and feel glad. I was far too human to watch a man die without something in me dying too.

"Are you in a trance, Theodore?" Ginny's words brought me back down to earth and the present moment with a jolt. Charity was sitting on the edge of a bed, staring moodily into space; Algy was curled up on another bed, fast asleep and smeared with chocolate. Ginny was sitting in a visitor's chair, looking at me, her expression both puzzled and worried.

"No; I was thinking." I did not meet her eyes – to see the emotion in them would have finished me entirely.

"Oh." She did not appear quite satisfied by my explanation but she did not press me. That was another thing that was different; where had the insatiable curiosity gone? What had Ernie Macmillan done to her? It could only be her marriage to him that had changed her so, though Harry's death had scarred her and motherhood had mellowed her. Since she had married Ernie, she had been different. If he'd been hurting her in any way, he would have me to answer to; and he could be assured that, if that were the case, I would have no mercy on him whatsoever.


	6. An Interview and an Offer

I looked critically at the man sitting opposite me with his legs propped up on my office desk and tried to follow exactly what he was saying. Eventually, I said, "Sorry, what is it that you're trying to say?"

Terry Boot brushed his unashamedly greying brown hair away from his face and said, "Exactly what it sounds like.  I'm sure – well, almost positive – that someone connected with the Macmillan family is working for Viper."

"How did you work that one out?" I tried not to sound completely disbelieving, but it really did seem too incredible for words. The only person who had not been badly injured as a result of the attack was Ginny, and I point blank refused to believe that _she_ could be anything to do with the murderous organisation. And, tempting and inviting though the conclusion was, I could not believe that Ernie Macmillan was either. He was too fussy, too pompous and above all too cowardly to be involved in anything of the kind. Yet the idea nagged at the back of my mind and refused to go away.

"I think it might have been Viper's way of getting someone on the inside," he explained, now taking a sip of some rather old red wine that I had found in my father's cellars years ago. "The last – the only – time the enemy's got in here was when they had help from inside. So it's understandable that they should want to try that, and what better way than to engineer an attack that would destroy their agent's house?" His words reminded me of Minerva's surprise and irritating at the Macmillans coming to the school to shelter.

"Which do you suspect?" I asked, trying to keep my voice as casual as possible, as if discussing the weather.  He didn't need to know why I was asking.

Terry spread his arms wide. "That's just it," he said. " _I don't know_. But it all seemed a little too neat to me. I mean, no one was badly injured. And they came straight here. It just doesn't sit right with me. Sometimes, you know, a lot of things come together to give an impression of something that is just slightly, subtly wrong."

I had not got that impression here, but I had been understandably distracted - and, besides, I did not have Terry's experience. There were few who did. He was famed among Aurors and renowned in the Muggle police. He had investigated – and solved – many impenetrable mysteries. It was only to be expected that he should be aware of something that I was not. If it had been anyone else saying such things, I would not have believed it, but I would have been foolish to discount anything that Terry had to say. If he believed one of the Macmillans to be an agent of Viper, it was probably true. I didn't want to have to face that, but I had no choice.

"It's hardly useful, though, knowing that one of them is crooked but not knowing who, is it?" I said, eventually.

"We have our ideas," said Terry, poker-faced. I stifled a smile; when he wanted to, he could take refuge in formal, official language just as well as Ernie Macmillan. "Unfortunately," he added, his voice and face more natural, "they aren't doing us much good. I have a suspicion that if we investigated any of the household, we'd find nothing but a blameless past. I hate to say it, but Viper's not stupid, and no more is Zacharias Smith."

He did not look much as if he hated to say it. Rather, he looked as if he was almost _enjoying_ the challenge that an intelligent enemy inevitably provides. It seemed to me a little ghoulish and it made me uncomfortable, but then great Aurors are often that way. His eyes glittered slightly in the candlelight and I was reminded, for one awful unsettling moment, of my father, of his eyes glowing with fanatical zeal, of his face lighting up so terribly when he found the cache of poisons. It was a different sort of enthusiasm, a different sort of challenge, but I felt a little sickened nonetheless.

"Smith still evading capture?" I asked, though I already knew what the answer would be.

"Very much so," said Terry, a little disconsolately. "I don't know how he can be; we've got all the Aurors in the country on alert, and most of the police force as well. Every divisional CID has him on file as a serial killer. They're supposed to call me if they catch him; I managed to become the officer in charge of the case.' He looked smugly satisfied. 'That'll teach him to commit murder in Northumbria." That was the county in which Terry was officially a member of the plainclothes force. It was said that they thought of him very highly there.

"I suppose you often get false sightings of him," I said, trying to sound sympathetic.

Terry snorted. "Often? Often? All the time! I think it must bring some sort of excitement to these people's lives, thinking they might have crossed tracks with a wanted murderer! I don't know why, but they really want to _believe_ that they've seen him! Anyone who had the slightest inkling of what that man is capable of wouldn't want to think that he was within a hundred miles of them!" He paused for breath. "Of course, we get genuine sightings, too, but so far he's managed to evade us. Maybe he's got a double or something."

"Any leads on Viper's identity?" I asked now, sipping at my own glass of wine.

"Why, Theodore Nott, if I didn't know better I'd think you were interrogating me!" cried Terry, laughing. "Will you take points from Ravenclaw if you don't think I'm doing my job properly?"

"Don't be silly." I spoke more sharply than I'd intended.  "It's just that the Ministry never says anything, so I'm reduced to grilling my friends to find out anything at all."

"The Ministry are fools."  Terry sounded uncharacteristically grim.  "We don't know who Viper is yet, but they don't _want_ to know. They don't want to know anything. They don't want to believe this is happening, but since when has that stopped anything?"  He stopped himself. "Sorry, I can get a bit heated on the subject sometimes."  I thought that he probably had a right to. "Anyway, I suppose I'd better go up and speak to the family. I spoke to Ernie already, of course, but this time it's all official."

"Was Ernie eager to speak to you?" I asked, smiling slightly at the image this presented.

Terry looked puzzled. "Do you know, I don't think he was. He said he was, but I got the feeling he really didn't want me there at all. He's a strange one; I never got his measure at school, or any time afterwards." He shrugged. "Still, you can walk me to the infirmary, and on the way you can tell me about my daughter. I heard she got put into your house. In fact, I had a very long letter from her, analysing everything the Sorting Hat had to say to her." He looked more amused than anything else.

"Ah, well, she wasn't happy."  I got up and followed Terry to the door. "I don't know why that was.  I mean, it's not as if being a Slytherin is particularly _shameful_. After all that's happened recently, I'd say that Smith has added a new terror to Hufflepuff."

Terry laughed. "He has that," he said. "Caro seemed to settle down a lot better once she realised I wasn't angry. I wasn't sure why I was _supposed_ to be angry, to be honest. I half-expected it; she's as slippery as they make them – cunning as a fox in a trap. My wife was a little – er – surprised, but nowhere near as bad as she could have been, given, well, certain events of the past."

He looked haunted all of a sudden, as if some terrible spectre had caught up with the normally jovial Auror. My smile faded as I remembered the _events_ of which he'd spoken. Terry's wife Elinor had been a Hufflepuff at school, but her brother had been Sorted into Slytherin and she had been forbidden to associate with him at school from that moment on.  She had obeyed, however unwillingly, and her brother had become a Death Eater.  It would be more than understandable if she blamed herself for her brother's eventual fate - and, whether she did or not, her daughter's placement could hardly fail to bring back bad memories.

Loath to leave my friend to dwell on such past unpleasantness, I said, "I imagine that Caroline will do well in Slytherin. She'll be a fine addition to the House. She's a good girl; Draco says she's exceptional at Potions." I paused, a little embarrassed by my own words. "I'm sorry; I sound a bit like a school report."

Terry's good-natured face creased into a smile. He had several fine lines around his mouth that betrayed the frequency with which he smiled. "You shouldn't apologise for telling me good things about my daughter," he said. "I might pop in and see her before I go."

"No Ravenclaws in the Slytherin common room."  I put on my best stern teacher voice for the occasion.

He laughed. "Surely you'll make an exception for me?"

"Maybe; if you're good."  I narrowed my eyes.  "Am I allowed to be there when you question the Macmillans?"

"Is that your price?" he asked. "It's confidential, I'm afraid. Only authorised Ministry employees are allowed to witness interrogations. Even if a civilian offers us very good quality wine – which that was, by the way – we still have to follow _procedure._ " He pulled a rather sour face at the last word. I did not allow my disappointment to show in my face, but he probably knew that I felt it.

We reached the infirmary door. "I'll see you when it's all over," he said. "Obviously I won't be able to tell you what they said, but I'll have to question you and Draco, preferably over a nice glass of brandy."

"Come down to the dungeons when you've finished, then," I offered. "I'll be there with Draco, and there might be alcohol. I can't promise anything. You shouldn't drink on duty, anyway." He smirked. "And maybe afterwards you can see your daughter, although it'll be after ten at night, so she might be in bed."

"Bed?" he snorted. "Not likely. You must know what children of her age are like, Theodore. They never seem to sleep at all! But I'll take you up on that. I hope I won't be long, but you never know. I just pray that no one is going to be hysterical, that's all." He gave a small, slightly melancholy smile. "Still, no rest for the wicked, eh?" He sighed deeply, and then pushed open the door and went into the sick bay. I heard the slow, pompous tones of Ernie Macmillan start up just before the door swung back and cut off all sound from within.

I stared at the door for a minute and then headed downstairs towards the dungeons. I stepped into the Potions classroom and saw that Draco's office door was wide open. The room was empty, but I went through and out into the sitting-room beyond. Sure enough, my friend was sitting in one of the chairs, his face set woodenly. He was not drinking brandy; in fact, he wasn't drinking at all. He was staring pensively at the fire in the grate and tapping his fingers rhythmically on the arm of the chair; a sure sign that his mind was elsewhere.

He looked up as I cleared my throat.  "Finally finished entertaining the Aurors, have you, Theodore?"

"It was Terry," I said, feeling stung into explanation. "I was trying to wheedle information out of him, but mostly failed. He's gone to question the Macmillans now, but I told him he could come down here afterwards, if that's okay."

Draco shrugged. "If he wants to come, he's welcome."  He sounded perfectly indifferent.  "But in the meantime, you can tell me what you managed to get out of our mutual friend."

"Not much," I admitted. 'They still don't know who Viper is. Or _where_ Smith is. And Terry thinks that one of the Macmillans is working for the enemy."

"Oh, really?" Draco looked more interested now; he leant forwards in the chair, his steady grey eyes boring into mine. "Did he say which? Or couldn't he tell you?"

"He doesn't know," I said, and launched into an explanation of exactly what Terry had said on the subject.

When I finished, Draco shrugged and said: "Sounds very vague to me. If it was anyone else, I'd say it was just a crazy theory, but Terry's been right too often before. If he thinks that, it must be for a good reason. He might not know consciously what the reason is, but it must be good."

"That was pretty much what I thought," I said, morosely.

Draco looked at me curiously. "Why are you so upset? If it's anyone, I imagine it'd be Macmillan, and if that's the case, you ought to be happy!" I glared at him. Unabashed, he continued, "I saw you with her. I mean, obviously I know how you feel about her, but I'd say that she probably feels the same way. She went straight for you when she got in here, didn't she?" A sly smirk was pulling at the corner of his mouth.

I felt a tumult of conflicted and painful emotions, as I always did when Ginny was brought into a conversation. "If she'd loved me, she wouldn't have married Macmillan when Harry died," I said, despondency deadening my voice.

"You forget; she's a Gryffindor," said Draco, lightly. "They do stupid things sometimes, all in the name of decency, or honour, or something equally noble and non-existent."

"This is supposed to be making me feel better?" I glared at him.  "If she does feel anything for me, knowing that would only be painful, so it's best that I don't think about it."  Draco's smile slipped and, for a moment, I saw the person he could be underneath his many masks – the person I had comforted after his father was executed, the person who, however callous it might suit him to appear, would die for the few people he truly cared about. And that person looked concerned for me, and his concern melted away any indignation or pain I might have felt.

"I suppose you're right," he said, after a moment. "And anyway, I suppose I can't really imagine Ernie Macmillan doing such a thing. Irritating as he might be, he's always been so very _good_ and _righteous_." Draco half-spat the words. "So pompous and self-satisfied."

"Who else is there?" I asked, secretly agreeing with him. "There's Ginny, but I refuse to believe that _she_ 'd betray us all. And there's Charity, of course." Not that I believed that that charming young girl could be capable of terrible things. I was not foolish enough to believe that a Gryffindor could never be a traitor, but I had taught her at school and could not imagine her being involved in anything violent, especially something that might harm her family.

Draco looked thoughtful. "As far as I can tell, all Terry _actually_ said was that a member of the Macmillan _household_ was connected with Viper. That doesn't necessarily mean a member of the family. It could be a servant or a house elf."

"I don't know if they've got any," I said. "Anyway, a house elf can't betray the family it serves; everyone knows that."

Draco smirked. "Did Ginny never tell you about Kreacher?" I just stared. "He was Potter's house elf, but he belonged to his godfather first.  You know, the blood-traitor Black." Old habits died hard with Draco; if he didn't pay attention he might inadvertently refer to a student or parent as a Mudblood. "Apparently he told his master's secrets to my mother, and the Dark Lord used them to set up a trap to catch Potter." There was a look of strange satisfaction on his face, as if he were fifteen again and exulting over the downfall of a rival. I chose to ignore it.

"But that sort of thing doesn't happen very often," I pointed out, reluctantly.

He scowled. "I'm only trying to help _you_ here," he said. "It's not me who'll be upset if someone in that family is a murderer and a traitor; it's you."  He sighed deeply, and suddenly looked very tired. "Anyway, worrying won't get us anything except grey hairs. Do you want a drink?"  He gestured at his well-stocked spirits cabinet. "There's still some of that brandy left, and I've got port, claret and whisky as well." He got up and rummaged in a cupboard, emerging with three crystal glasses.

"I already had some red wine with Terry," I began.

"Port it is then," said Draco, cheerfully, pouring a small quantity of dark red liquid into each glass. He passed one of these to me and then settled back down into his chair, leaving the third glass sitting on the table, waiting for Terry. I took a sip; it was good. Draco had always had exquisite taste in food and drink. This was quite well known; a few years ago a group of seventh years had attempted to break into his private chambers to get their hands on the contents of the spirits cabinet.

"You know," I said, after a moment. "I think I might have got into the habit of drinking too much, recently."

"Impossible!"  Draco snorted. "I don't think we've been particularly extravagant lately, Theodore. We drank more than this when we were at _school_."

"We're still at school," I pointed out.

Draco grimaced. "God save me from comedians."  He mock-groaned. I laughed. A smile crept over the pale, pointed face, but it vanished quickly as Terry Boot stuck his head around the door.

"Is Theo actually being funny?"  There was an insulting note of disbelief in his voice.  He noticed the third glass of port and picked it up. "Thanks, Draco," he said, taking an approving sip. He crossed the room and sat down in a third chair, first having to clear a pile of unmarked essays from the seat. "This is good stuff," he said, now. "I must say, I need it. Talking to Ernie Macmillan is tiring; I don't know how his wife manages to put up with it."

"Maybe she ambushes him when he gets home in the evening and sticks a gag on him," suggested Draco, suppressing a smile, getting involved despite himself.

Terry shrugged. "Well, _I_ certainly would, if I were her," he said. He stretched his long legs out across the green carpet. "I can tell you; this little incident has only made me more determined to catch Viper and Smith and make them pay for what they've done to us."

I looked at him steadily, coming to a decision in my mind. "I suppose you're terribly short-staffed."

He laughed. "Of course; we always are.  What's your point?"

"Well, I know I'm not exactly officially trained, but can you take me with you next time you get a Smith alert?"

Terry stared. "You?  Why would you want to come?"

"The same reason as you; I want him caught."  I thought about it; of Ginny scared and homeless, Charity injured, even Macmillan with his deep, scarring burns. "And I'd like to see, close up, what the boy I used to know has become."

"He's a monster," said Terry, bluntly. "And do you really think you can help? I mean, I know that during the war, you were the backbone of the Slytherin corps, you and Draco, but we're not actually _at_ war yet. Strictly speaking, civilians aren't allowed to come with us on alarm calls." It was the excuse I had known he would give, but I didn't want to give up. Terry knew that. He knew that the so-called 'Slytherin corps' had earned its twin reputations for viciousness and belligerence, and he probably suspected that I had lost none of the tenacity I had possessed at eighteen.

He looked at me, a more careful appraisal this time. "I suppose that, seeing as this is strictly a police liaison case, I could allow you to come," he said, with the air of one making a great sacrifice, which we both knew he was not. "Want me to fetch you as well, Draco?" he asked now.

Draco stared. "I don't know what Theodore thinks he can accomplish," he said, shortly. He had never liked Terry as much as I had. "Sounds more like curiosity than any actual desire to help you. But if I'm not busy, I might come along." Terry rolled his eyes. I, knowing Draco better, just smiled; that was as much enthusiasm as he could allow himself to show in the situation. Of course I knew that, under his cool and haughty reserve, my friend was just as curious about Smith as I was.


	7. Badger Baiting

The first time I was called upon to fulfil that promise was over a week later, and to be honest I had practically forgotten about it by then. Teaching tends to force all other things out of one's mind. It also didn't help that I had been spending quite a bit of my spare time – as Draco delighted in pointing out to me – in the sick bay with the Macmillans. They had temporarily taken up residence there, since there were no other quarters available in the school. I had offered Charity a room in the Slytherin dungeons, but this suggestion had been met with a rather withering stare.

I was there in the infirmary again when Terry arrived. It was just after the first Quidditch match of the season, the traditional Gryffindor-Slytherin opener. All of Ginny's children were there with her; her older son Andrew, a second year, had been injured playing Seeker for Gryffindor – as his father so often had many years before. He did not look as if he had been badly hurt, but he seemed reluctant to leave the room, probably because his mother was fussing over him and letting him eat as much chocolate as he liked.

I was sitting on the end of one of the beds, talking to Charity, when Terry arrived.

"Draco said I might find you here," he panted, as he let the door swing to behind him. "There's been a sighting of Smith fifteen miles north of here; I thought I'd come and get you seeing as it's on the way there." I knew full well that his reluctance was nothing more than a show; he would be glad to have someone with him who really knew the score. His Muggle colleagues did not, for all they knew that Smith was an incredibly dangerous man.

"Isn't Draco coming?" I was rather surprised.

"He's giving some poor little students hell," said Terry. "Remedial potions classes or something – he can't get away. Are you coming, or what?" I could practically feel the impatience coming off him, and his eyes kept flicking towards the door.

"Certainly I'm coming," I said, quickly, standing up. I turned to Charity, "I'm afraid I'm going have to leave you now." I had intended to say more, but I faltered on seeing the look on her face. Her eyes, those familiar bright green eyes, were so cold, almost angry. Then she blinked and the look was gone. I wondered if I had imagined it. It could have been – must have been – a trick of the light.

"That's fine," she said, easily, no trace of any antipathy or anger in her voice. "I'll see you later, or tomorrow then, Theodore." She smiled at me, a smile she must have learnt from her mother, because it made my stomach twist over in an all too familiar way.

Terry and I left the infirmary quickly. I stopped at my office to grab some Muggle clothes – the policemen who would be present must not suspect anything – and then we were swiftly on our way. We Apparated to a car that Terry had left a mile from the small, isolated village where Smith had been seen, and he drove us the rest of the way. It was very seldom that I saw the inside of a Muggle car. It seemed that the technology had progressed somewhat since the last time I had been a passenger in one of these vehicles. I tried not to stare too much, but Terry must have known what I was thinking. To him, a Muggle-born, cars were nothing special, but he knew the effect that they could have on purebloods like me.

We pulled up next to a police patrol car, one of the ones with blue lights on the top. Terry got out and took charge immediately. The uniformed police fell back, respectfully. The most senior of them appeared grateful that this expert, high-ranking detective had come to take matters out of his hands. I got out of the car as well and walked towards the small gaggle of official investigators, who were standing a little way away from a larger crowd of curious neighbours. The policemen looked up at me, curiously.

Terry said: "This is Theodore Nott; he's a friend of mine. He's a criminal psychologist. He's attempting to profile Smith for us." This might have meant something to the other men, because they stopped staring at me and began to mutter among themselves again, but it meant nothing at all to me. There were times when I thought that Terry was more Muggle than wizard underneath. He spoke a different language, the language of technology, of progress, of a different world. I understood sometimes, looking at him, why the purists feared and hated Muggle-borns. They were not tied to our insular and decaying world, and whatever we purebloods might like to think, the future lay with them, not with our ancient, suffocating customs.

We walked on towards the building where Smith was supposed to be. Terry walked by my side, and muttered, "Basically what I just said was that you study the personalities of criminals, and that you want to see Smith close up so you can write a report about him. Psychologists analyse someone's mental state."

"So you want me to meet Smith and tell you whether or not I think he's barking mad?" I asked, smiling in spite of the situation.

"That would just about cover it." Terry smiled back. "Now, this is where the witness says he saw him. He was just going into the old warehouse. I think he's trying to get a base close to Hogwarts. We've found two abandoned bases so far – he abandons them when we get too close for comfort. They're normally caves, or barns, or old and derelict buildings." He called out to one of the other men. "This is the place where our killer's staked out, isn't it?" The man shouted something back, evidently a confirmation, because Terry stopped walking.

"I wonder if anyone here saw Viper as well," I murmured, looking up at the building. It did not look like a good base, but I supposed that therein lay its virtue.

Terry stared at me, then asked, "Any sightings of the cloaked accomplice?"

The tall man whom I had taken for the superior uniformed officer replied, "No one says they've seen him. He could be here, he could not be. No way of knowing if even Smith's still here."

"No way of knowing till we get inside," Terry muttered, darkly. "He might be leading us a merry dance again, in which case he'll probably have left a note, or he might have decided he wants more Auror blood. He's killed several of my men, you know, and we've never come close to bringing him in. It's just embarrassing. Whatever we do, he always gets away." And in that admirable frame of mind, we ventured forwards and into the warehouse.

It was dark and smelt damp, and had I not known Terry better I would have decided that he was mistaken. It seemed highly improbable that Smith was hiding here, but then, stranger things had happened.  Terry was shining an electric torch around. It reminded me of watching Muggle teenagers using lights to flush out cats so they could shoot them. The back of a cat's eye is reflective, so when a torch shines into it, you can see the light glowing back at you. I wondered if such a thing would work with wizards. Were there physical differences between wizards and Muggles that could be revealed with something as trivial as a torch beam? Or were we, as Harry had said years ago, just Muggles with magic? Was it possible to tell, just by looking, if someone was magical or not?

There was a loud noise and something just behind me exploded. Terry shouted that someone was firing a gun, and waved the policemen back, but he knew and I knew that this was no firearm. This was _magic_ , lethal magic, and that meant that a wizard was here and trying to kill us. We had found Smith. I felt my heart begin to beat faster as adrenaline took over. It had been years since my life had been in danger, and in some insane way, I had missed it.

The dust in the shadows ahead of us swirled, and then Smith stepped out. He was at once terrifying and pathetic. His limbs were thin, his body emaciated, his hair a filthy white, devoid of all colour. His face was ingrained with dirt, his clothes were torn and his beard was unruly and ragged. He looked like a drunken beggar with a crooked stick clutched in his right hand, though his teeth were incongruously white and bared in a horrible smile. But his eyes, cold grey-green and alive with a rabid, ice-cold flame, struck fear deep into my soul. Everything about Smith was calculated to give an appearance of ragged madness, but those eyes told the truth. He wasn't mad; he didn't have that excuse. It wasn't insanity I could see in those eyes; it was evil, pure and simple.

Those eyes lit on me and the smile broadened. "Ah!" A disturbing gasp, almost a sigh.  "Yet another classmate! I've been killing our year, have you noticed?" There was a sort of lunatic pride in the brittle, wavering voice.

Terry stepped forwards slightly, not taking his eyes off Smith for even an instant. The Muggle police hadn't moved. They might not know the significance of what Smith held in his hand, but they weren't stupid; they knew that here, with this man, they were in danger, terrible danger. The cold eyes were flickering from me to Terry, as if Smith was trying to work out which of us would be more dangerous to him. I saw his right hand shake slightly; in a heartbeat my own wand was out and trained on the criminal. He just stared at me, slightly surprised, as if a small and stupid child had just produced a fully-formed Patronus.

Then he acted with frightening speed. His wand came down and his lips moved, shaping words I knew too well. The green light flashed in the darkness; only my trained wartime reflexes saved me. I dropped to the floor and the curse flew over my head; from a horrible breathless grunt and ominous crash I knew that it had hit one of the Muggles. I didn't think about that; just dragged myself up to face the adversary again.

"Very good!" he laughed. "But killing Muggles doesn't really satisfy me as much.  I'm sure you understand." Terry started a Binding spell, but Smith merely waved his wand and the powerful Auror was flung across the dark space. "You are surrounded by enemies; they are closer than you think."  He spoke almost conversationally. "And do not think you can kill me, or my _master,_ either. You will never kill Viper." A smile played around his thin lips, as if he knew some delicious secret that no one else could guess.

He deflected another of Terry's spells almost absent-mindedly. How could he do such a thing? "What do you mean? And where did you get such power that you can defeat us so easily?" Pandering to his ego, I thought, with dark satisfaction. _Maybe he'll tell me more than he intended to._ And I was curious; as far as I remembered, Smith had never been a match for Terry, at school or at any time afterwards.

"This power was always mine," Smith said, mockingly. "If you tie yourself to rules and good form – things that do not exist – then you will _never_ be this powerful. You of all people should know, Theodore; the Dark Arts are power. Only master them, and all is yours."

Anger blocked out his twisted logic. How could anyone _believe_ that? My wand jerked now; a flash of light crossed the space, and Smith was struck square by an attack he hadn't expected. He fell to the floor, gasping; he probably couldn't breathe. His arm stretched towards me, his hand contorted into a claw. I looked on, satisfied, and Terry approached cautiously, holding his side and wincing. He stared at Smith, who was gulping and scrabbling at the floor, then looked at me, aghast.

I didn't explain myself.  I didn't say anything at all to Terry.  Instead, I addressed the stricken Smith.  "You tell _me_ about the Dark Arts? I could cast this when I was thirteen. Nasty way to die, suffocation." The eyes were rolling back into the head now, the face turning blue. "I know these things, I have mastered these things, I just don't choose to use them. Normally." I hated to use them; the Dark Arts made me feel ill. I felt awful now – I had let my anger get the better of me, something no Slytherin should do. I should have cast a different spell. _What? I think it's safe to say that_ Petrificus Totalus _wouldn't have got me very far._

Terry stared at me, shocked, as if he had never expected me to do such a thing. "Take that off him," he said. "You can't _do_ things like that.  And we have to bind him and take him to the Ministry."  His eyes had gone slightly wide at the thought of bringing in Smith – Smith who had never yet been in custody, had never stood trial, had never been punished for any of his many crimes.

Nor was he fated to be tonight. He had been bound and permitted to breathe, and Terry had levitated his still body to transport it. The Muggle policemen had yet to be dealt with. One of their number was dead, and the others were bewildered. Men who know they are dealing with a killer expect that they might die, but not like that, not by an unknown green light flying through the still dark air. It wasn't something a Muggle could understand, any more than I could understand how guns worked.

It wasn't their fault, but they delayed us. It gave Smith time. I didn't know what he did, or how he managed it, but somehow, incredibly, he managed to get a message to Viper. We didn't know that at the time, when we finally managed to get the bound body out into the street. The Muggles didn't see us – Disillusionment Charms are wonderful things. The last thing we really needed was for anyone in the crowd still hanging about to see us stuffing a man's body into the back of the car.

Terry drove in silence. He was angry. I recognised that I'd cost a man his life, but I'd caught Smith, something that he and his Aurors had failed to do so many times before. I didn't know why he _should_ be angry. People died in war. Muggles got caught up in wizard's fights sometimes. That had always happened. It had always been inevitable that some innocents might die. I felt a small twinge of guilt – after all, had I not ducked, a man would not be dead – but I had survived too many bloody skirmishes to blame myself. When facing a killer, it was every man for himself.

Eventually he said, "What did you think you were doing?"

"I was doing what I was told to do!" I protested. "You _wanted_ my help in catching Smith!"

"You antagonised him! You pulled out your wand! That made him attack you. A man's dead because you overreacted! And then you used some horribly Dark curse that I don't even want to think about on him! So tell me, what were you playing at?"

I frowned. _What were you playing at?_ It was an odd turn of phrase. But I understood what it meant, well enough. "I didn't overreact, and you know it.' My anger and irritation was rising again. "I thought Smith was about to cast a spell. I was _defending_ myself. And I caught him by surprise, and it's thanks to me that you've got him bound and gagged in your car, so don't go asking me what I thought I was doing. I thought I was catching Smith, that's all!"

Suddenly Terry sighed. "I'm sorry, Theodore," he said. "It's just that, when someone dies on one of my jobs, I get a horrendous amount of paperwork and I'll have to explain what you were doing there." He ran one hand through his hair, keeping the other on the wheel. I looked at him nervously, wondering if he could control the death-trap vehicle with one hand.  "I supposed I'd forgotten exactly how you Slytherins used to get your results. You survived mainly on quick thinking and by using any means necessary, didn't you?"

"As befits a Slytherin." I was only half smiling. It was almost a joke, now, but at the time it had seemed like a large divide. No one had trusted the 'Slytherin corps'. We fought _with_ the Light, but we were never of the Light. Draco, for one, had never made any secret of his dislike of Muggles and Muggle-borns, nor had he ever apologised for his use of Dark magic. We none of us had been motivated by love, or morals, or even a desire to end suffering – we were still Slytherins, after all. Mostly we fought because our lives had been ruined or our families destroyed by Riddle and his faithful. We fought for revenge rather than honour, and I have always thought that we fought more fiercely than anyone else, because our reasons for doing so were so close to our hearts.

"I only remember being grateful that you were fighting with us, and not against us," Terry said, tactfully putting the subject to rest. It began to rain, and it was suddenly hard to see out of the windows. He flicked one of the many bewildering switches in the car, and a thin black arm began to squeak its way backwards and forwards across the front window. "Still am, as a matter of fact."  He turned his eyes away from the road to look for an amazed moment at the captured Smith.

It was at that moment, when his attention was elsewhere, that I looked up and saw a nightmare gleaming in the light beams. "Bloody hell, Terry, _stop!"_ I screamed, in a voice too high-pitched to be mine. Terry turned his head away from his captive, swore, and slammed on the brakes. The car screeched across the road, the wheels skidding on damp tarmac. It was turning, spinning around madly. There were suddenly ditches and sinister figures everywhere and I was almost certain that I was going to die.

Terry was frantically fighting with the wheel. The world began to tip over and there was a horrendous crash. I closed my eyes and covered my head with my hands almost instinctively. Sharp little somethings tore into my arms, and I was thrown into the side door with force. I could feel warm liquid trickling over my cheeks and I knew that it was blood.

I tentatively lowered my arms. Terry was slumped forwards over the wheel. I felt worry and fear pool in my stomach. Was he alright? For that matter, was I? I heard a noise in the car and turned, wrenching my battered shoulder as I did so, and saw the figure reaching in towards Smith. I wasn't going to let _that_ happen. I fought with the stupid restraining belt and managed to get it off, then I turned and grabbed hold of a green-cloaked arm. There was a surprised hiss. I dragged at the offending limb with all the strength I could summon. Could this be Viper? Could it be true that this was the most wanted man in the country?

I was never to know. I had his wand arm, but he was not alone. And his accomplice, seeing that he was in trouble, must have hastened over to help, because the next thing I knew, someone was attempting to let daylight into my skull. My left temple caved. My fingers slackened their grip. My vision faded and swirled. I wondered briefly why they had not used magic, but my mind couldn't grip anything properly. Blackness swum into my vision and then I was lost to it.

* * *

I couldn't open my eyes. I didn't know where I was, because I couldn't open my _eyes_. I felt fear creeping up on me, and tried to suppress it. What had happened to me? Where could I be? Why did my head ache so? And why, oh why, couldn't I open my eyes? I clawed at my face. My eyes were stuck shut with congealed blood. Nasty enough, but at least I knew how to remedy that. I spat on my hand and rubbed the warm saliva across the clotted blood. It began to shift. After a few minutes, I could open both of my eyes and I could see.

Not that the view was worth much. It was dark. What time had it been when I left Hogwarts? Not after six, surely. And now it was dark; it must be late. The glass front of the clock imbedded in the car was smashed, but the hands still moved – it was nearly eleven. How long had I lain unconscious in the car? I looked askance at Terry. He hadn't moved; still slumped over the wheel. I felt a terrible jolt and wondered if he was even alive. Where was everyone? Someone, somewhere, must be worried, if not about me, then about Terry. But no one had come to find us. Why?

The car was smashed in. I couldn't get out. I was in no fit state to Apparate. I couldn't contact anyone. Terry might have been able to, with his fancy telephone that I didn't understand and couldn't use. I reached over and shook him. He made a small, tortured moaning sound but he didn't wake up. At least now I knew he was alive, but that wasn't going to help me to keep him so.

Smith was gone. Well, I'd expected that. That had been the whole _point_ of this car accident, hadn't it? But how had they – whoever they had been – known that Smith would be in this car? Could they, somehow, have mastered telepathy, the supposed impossible? However they had done it, they had outsmarted us. My hand went again to the wound on my temple. It was deep and bloody, and I knew I could not survive for too long with my head open like that. I wondered if my assailant had intended to kill me. If he had, he had not reckoned on the thick skull bequeathed to me by my ancestors.

But I might still die. My legs were trapped. And my wand… I felt in my pocket. My wand was broken. I was badly injured, bleeding and defenceless. I tried to remember ever being in such a bad situation in the war, but I failed. However badly injured or inadequately prepared I had ever been, I had had Draco there with me to cover my back and defend me when I fell. Now, here, I had nothing and no one, and Terry was dying as I watched.

His face – _Draco's face_ – flitted past the window. It was in my mind, I was sure of it. He couldn't be here. He didn't know I was here. He couldn't. No one did. But it seemed that he was there, because he peered into the wreck and suddenly gave a shout. There were more people, moving about, and I didn't know who they were or even if I knew them, but they were there and someone was getting me out of the damned car, which was all I cared about.

I saw Draco looking concerned. "You're a mirage," I said, indistinctly.

He stared at me, horrified, though I knew he would have laughed if he had not been faced with the fact of my split skull. "And you're concussed," he said, firmly. "We're getting you back to Hogwarts. I don't know what you two have been playing at, but it's all right now." It was that phrase again, as if Terry and I had been playing – playing with fire, maybe.

And then there was Charity, her green eyes vibrant, wringing her hands. "Oh, Theo," she breathed. "When I saw the car I thought you were dead."  There were tears in her eyes, and I wondered why, in an oddly detached way. Nothing seemed to make sense. I couldn't understand anything. Someone was carrying me and I didn't know who they were. I had nearly died and it was Charity who was crying. It was dark night but everything seemed to be too bright. I was in pain but I couldn't really feel it. The only thing I could feel was a sort of bone-wrenching tiredness, so in the end I succumbed to it and let myself fall fast asleep again.


	8. Ivory Tower

I felt more than a little guilty about leaving my students under the tutelage of Draco and the textbook, but it proved to be a necessary evil. There are many things that medimagic can heal almost instantly, but concussion is not one of them. The only real cure for it, even for a wizard, is to lay still and to sleep. I slept for the better part of two days, and even then whenever I awoke I felt tired. It was as if something about meeting Smith had drained me terribly.

Charity must have kept up some sort of vigil by my bedside, for she was the first person I saw when I opened my eyes to the sterile whiteness of the hospital wing. She seemed relieved enough to see me better, and it puzzled me; I might well have been her favourite teacher – an unusual choice for a Gryffindor, perhaps – but I did not think that she cared about me enough to be so worried on my behalf. It occurred to me – and the thought was not unwelcome – that she would not have cared so much had it been her stepfather who had been injured.

"Professor Malfoy says that you're a fool," she said, conversationally, after making sure that I really was alright after many hours of being addled and asleep.

I tried to sit up, but was checked by an ache that seemed to be in every part of my body at once. "And very probably I am," I said, wincing and lowering myself back into the cushions. "I suppose I'm too old and too out of shape to go running around the country after practitioners of the Dark Arts any more."

"Not old," said Charity, firmly. "And anyway, you _did_ catch him – the rest was just bad luck." It was more than bad luck, I thought, grimly, although she did not need to know that. It was conspiracy, or maybe something darker and more inexplicable. They couldn't have telepathic powers - the hypothesised long-distance mind-linking simply did not exist – but I failed to see how else they could possibly have arranged the accident and the rescue.

"I feel old, now."  I answered the first part of her statement while carefully avoiding the second. She showed no sign of noticing the evasion. "Agh, these feel like old man's bones."  For what was probably the first time in my life, I felt constrained within my alarmingly fragile body.  I tried to sit up again and this time succeeded. That was better. There was a cup of tea by my bedside, evidently freshly made, and I did not have to look far to find out who had put it there. I picked it up and took a sip. "Thank you."

Charity shrugged. "It's nothing."  She looked away.  "'It's good for shocks, and waking up to find yourself back at Hogwarts has to count as a shock."  Her voice was tight and unhappy. I frowned at her. Had she really seen the school as such a prison?  "I have to deal with shock a lot at work, of course."

"And where is that?"  Slytherin or not, my curiosity often got the better of discretion.

She smiled, grimly.  "St Mungo's; the Oncology ward."  She spoke very softly now, her lips barely moving. I stared at her slightly strained pale face. It surprised me, but perhaps it should not have done. Maybe being a nurse was not a very obvious choice of career for the daughter of Harry Potter, but Charity had always been her own person, defying definition. And, God knew, she had more reason than most to choose such a career. Considering her father's fate, it was only to be expected that she should have more than usual compassion for the dying and their families. I wondered what her mother made of her choice.

"Oh." I didn't say anything more and she seemed grateful; probably she had dreaded awkward questions. I didn't have anything to say. Nor, it seemed, did she, because she left the room soon after. The clock in the infirmary told me that it was just after six – probably she had gone for dinner. Or breakfast, depending on which six o'clock it was. I felt a little hungry myself. Surely Sonia would come out soon and give me something? Probably beef broth, I thought with a shudder. The school nurse was renowned for her affection for beef broth, feeding it to all manner of convalescents.

I was hardly surprised to be proved right in this; I was more surprised when, almost as soon as I had finished the so-called meal, the door opened and let in Draco, accompanied by Terry Boot. I had almost forgotten about Terry during my recovery. He had seemed worse than I was when he was slumped over the car wheel, but now he looked as healthy and lively as ever, while here was I, lying weakly recovering in an infirmary bed.

"I trust you're feeling better now, Theodore?"

"Better than I was."  I let my eyes flick over him visibly. "And here was I thinking that you'd be at death's door right now.  But you look fine."

"Ah, well, I didn't have the additional problems of a smashed-in skull." It started off as a joke but turned somehow grave as it went along.  He groaned, "My chief will have my head for this.  I've been interviewed by everyone under the sun. I had to fill in heaps of paperwork about the dead policeman" – I felt a slight twinge of something that might have been guilt – "and the Ministry wasn't happy either. Until I explained that it was you that managed to capture Smith in the first place, of course. Now they're rather interested at recruiting you to the Reserves."

My head spun slightly. Untrained men were seldom offered Reserve Auror-ship, especially Slytherins with a history of using Dark spells and, worse, not following the ancient codes of honour in battle. It was a symbol of how desperate the Ministry had become that they were even contemplating it. It seemed that the country was in more trouble than the Minister or the _Daily Prophet_ was prepared to admit to us.

"Did you tell them how he escaped?" I put the offer - incredible though it was - to one side for the present.

"I don't really know myself," Terry admittedly, ruefully. "There was a car crash, that I do know. My insurance company will have my no-claims bonus for this," he added, with a distinctly wry smile.

I didn't understand the last part, so I ignored it. "There was a crash, yes, but no accident," I began.  I then explained all I had seen; the figure in the road, the man in the car, and how I came to have my head bashed in. "You see what that means? He somehow managed to get word to _someone_ in his organisation that he was captured. And he couldn't speak, or cast a spell of any kind. I can't begin to think how – I mean, it's not _possible!"_

Terry looked shaken, but Draco said, pragmatically, "If it wasn't possible, he wouldn't have been able to do it. There must be someone, somewhere, who knows about this method of communication. There'll be books on the subject."

"If only there were a magical Encyclopaedia Britannica," Terry murmured. I might not understand some of the things he said, but I'd heard of this encyclopaedia all right; the way Terry spoke of it, I assumed that it was the Muggle fount of all knowledge. I imagined for a moment a long shelf packed with huge volumes containing all there was to know about magic. It would be easy, then, to find out about anything – the Hogwarts Library was alphabetised, but it had first been separated into subject sections, so it was possible to completely miss what you were looking for.

"There is, sort of."  A sly smile crept across Draco's face, alerting me to the possibility that he was up to something.  "A veritable encyclopaedia, and all in the head of one woman." His smile became a smirk.  "Of course, the trouble is, she's not been heard of for several years – since her divorce – so we don't know where to find her. But some people must know, and who better than her own dear friend and ex-sister-in-law, Mrs. Macmillan?"

"Hermione Granger." I supplied the name, dutifully. Draco nodded, eyes triumphant. It had somehow never felt right referring to her by her married name, so I had found it almost a relief when she had reverted to her original one after her divorce. _That_ had been a bitter, bloody affair, culminating in the then four-year-old child of the marriage, Hector, being wrested away from his mother. I knew well where Ginny's sympathy had lain after the verdict. Her opinion of her once-dearest brother had sunk considerably then, although not to the depths of my own. I had _never_ thought much of Ronald Weasley; he had not cared much for me, either, but at least my hostility had been based on a dislike of his character, not of his Hogwarts house.

Terry looked puzzled. "Surely, you would do better to ask someone in the Ministry; I know some researchers in the Department of Mysteries – this is their field, isn't it?"

I shook my head. For someone who had worked for the Ministry for as long and risen as high as he had, he could be amazingly naïve. "If I went round asking someone in the Department of Mysteries about the possibility of telepathic communication, what do you think would happen to me, Terry?"

He looked startled for a moment, then he smiled. "Ah. Yes. The solution to that mystery has eluded them for decades. And the Department does seem more dedicated to making sure that things _remain_ mysterious than actually solving anything." He paused. "I suppose it couldn't hurt to find Hermione and ask her. She always did know everything when we were back at school." This admission had to annoy him, as a former Ravenclaw.

"That's exactly what  _I_ said." It occurred to me that in both his triumphs and disasters Draco never really appeared at his best. In victory he was more inclined to be arrogant, self-satisfied and vindictive than magnanimous; in defeat he had been known to whine and plead, though he had never to my knowledge sold an ally to the enemy. Right now he was a triumphant child, getting his own way and rubbing everyone else's noses in the fact. I doubted that he consciously _felt_ like that; it was just how it looked from the outside.

Rather like a man placating a child, Terry said, "Well, when you find her, let me know. This is something I want to hear, too." He put his hat back on, signalling that he was about to go. He walked to the door, and then turned round and said, "So, Theo, if they do ask me again about making you a Reserve Auror, what do you want me to say?"

I looked at him. "I suppose this'll mean I can _legitimately_ accompany you next time you get a Smith call?"

"More than that; you'll _have_ to," Terry said, firmly. "You'll be signed up under my team for Smith duty. As a Reserve, you'll have to come when you're called." He looked speculatively at Draco. "You want to come along as well? I'll have to twist a few arms, whisper words of recommendation into a few ears, but I might be able to swing it for you." I wondered why Terry would do such a thing. Did he imagine that I would only accept if I could have Draco by my side? It could hardly be motivated by any genuine desire to include Draco; though I liked both of them, I knew that they were less than fond of one another.

"If Theodore is mad enough to accept your offer," Draco said, mock-disdainfully, "then I shall as well, as it seems as if he can do nothing properly without my help."

I shot a sharp look at him, half amused and half exasperated.  "Well, then," I said. "Be prepared to be dragged around the country, Draco, because I think I shall have to accept." He looked as if he might protest, so I added, "Besides, which of us is the fool? At least I didn't base my acceptance on someone else's decision." Both Terry and Draco snorted, although probably for different reasons. I hadn't accepted the offer to annoy Draco; in fact, I wasn't really sure why I _had_. I'd seen Smith close up now, and nearly died for the privilege. I had never been stupid, never been keen on sticking my neck out, but maybe, just maybe, I was beginning to crave excitement in my old age.

* * *

The building was rather drab, and so tall as to be intimidating. Wizards are not well-known for their skyscrapers, for the simple reason that we don't build them. Castles might be built many storeys high, but they are large and sprawl out over a vast area. Not so this monstrosity, which took up very little ground room considering that it appeared to go up for over fifteen floors. It was hard to see the top, and just looking up at it made me feel dizzy.

"It's unnatural."  Draco was evidently having the same problem. "I don't understand how they don't notice that their office is just a spindly tower. It'd make me feel uncomfortable, working on the top floor of this."

"Well, we aren't going to the top floor."  His obvious discomfort motivated me to disguise my own. "But we are going in. We want the fifth floor." We headed for the front door. "If we act like we belong here, no one will ask us anything, probably."

Draco snorted. "Are you a wizard or not?" He tapped first me and then himself with his wand. 'Why bother trying to sneak in when a Charm means that everyone will leave us alone?" I felt a little stupid; maybe I was getting too good at thinking like a Muggle. We passed through the reception area without trouble - though the lift perplexed Draco somewhat - and soon enough were standing outside an office on the fifth floor, knocking apprehensively on the door.

A woman came to the door, a young blonde woman who was definitely not Hermione. "Can I help?" she asked, sounding simultaneously harried and polite. She held the door half-closed with one hand; she seemed very disinclined to allow us an audience with her boss.

It was Draco who spoke up.  He always seemed to go down better in situations where an impression of respectability was required – laughable, considering his family history. "We're here to see Ms Granger, on private business. The reference is to a Mrs. McGonagall." He smiled, a thin smile that worked perfectly with the striped suit he appeared to be wearing. He looked exactly like a young, successful City businessman, or at least what I had always imagined them to look like.

The possible-secretary did not look wholly convinced but duly carried Draco's message through. She returned two minutes later and said, "She says she'll see you, but she doesn't have long – maybe half an hour. You should really make an appointment if you want to meet someone."  She said this last part reproachfully. Draco made an apologetic noise and inclined his head politely to her as he went past, through a small room and over to the connecting door to a larger one. I followed him, although the blonde woman seemed to frown at me suspiciously.

"Well, Hermione?" Draco stood before the large desk looking at a woman with dark, sleekly curled brown hair, with something that was almost affection in his eyes. Of all the younger members of the Order, she had been the one of those most tolerant of him. Draco's 'induction' into the secret organisation had been incredibly dramatic, courtesy of a failed suicide attempt that had left him bedridden for months. I knew for a fact that Harry had spent some of his Horcrux-hunting time talking to Draco, trying to discover his reasons. Those two had become – not _friends_ , but nowhere near enemies either.

That relationship, whatever it had been, had understandably worried Ron and Hermione. But the studious girl had managed to contain her emotions – she was surprisingly good at that, for a Gryffindor – and had reached an unspoken truce with Draco. It had in time extended to Ginny and the twins and certain other young Order members, though never to Ron, who had hated Draco like poison, and probably still did. Hermione might be annoyingly intelligent and lacking in a sense of humour, but she was a fair woman who stood by her friends through everything.

"Draco."  She gave a short nod.  "Oh, and Theodore, too. I thought it might be one or other of you, but I hardly expected both. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Well, it's rather a long story..."

"If it's long, I don't have time to hear it now."  She frowned.  "How did you two manage to get the time off to come?"

"It's lunchtime," Draco said, simply. "And all we needed was sufficient determination, and we were here in the blink of an eye. Not like with Muggles, driving cars all over the place." He cast a sidelong glance at me on the word _cars_.

"Yes, well." Hermione looked aggrieved. She pulled a wand out of the top drawer of her desk and waved it about, murmuring spell words under her breath. "Right, now we can speak freely. What's this about?"

"It's about Viper." I thought it best to cut in before Draco could start on the supernatural aspects of our problem. I explained about the raid and the car crash. "Do you see our problem?"

"What, of explaining exactly how the rescuers knew where to go, or even that a rescue was needed? Of course. It rather leaps to the eye." Draco snorted, but turned the sound into a sneeze as Hermione turned her stare upon him. "I suppose you want my help. Did McGonagall really send you, by the way?"

"Uh, well, I suppose..." Draco, who could lie to anyone - including the Dark Lord - stammered awkwardly under Hermione's gaze.

"Which means of course she didn't,' Hermione said, quickly. "But I might know something about theories of long-distance non-verbal communications. I could consult a few books and get back to you. Is this, well, is it _vital_ to your defeat of Viper?" She looked extremely earnest all of a sudden.

I caught her eye and held it.  "It might be."

She looked worried, and maybe a little scared. "I hadn't realised that it was all so _extreme._ I didn't think it was another Voldemort on the rampage; if I had I would have done something earlier – _I_ would have come to _you._ I care about the wizarding world; I don't want you to think I don't. If helping you will save it, I'll do anything I can. I might have objections to certain wizards and certain legal processes, but I wouldn't – I won't – let that stop me." She finally paused for breath. "Look, I've no time now. I will speak to you on Friday, at six-fifteen at the little Italian restaurant down the road from here. I'll try and do some reading between now and then."

She seemed very eager to get rid of us, but Draco seemed equally in no hurry to go. "Why'd you get a job here, as a Muggle?" he asked now, pleasantly enough. "Didn't have to cut and run, did you?"

"No," Hermione said, tightly. "I didn't _have_ to. I just – oh, it's hard to explain. After I lost Hector there _wasn't_ anything there for me anymore. Harry's been dead for years and Ron… well, the divorce wasn't particularly amicable." That was certainly an understatement. Draco shot her a sympathetic look; he had been through a similar ordeal himself. A sharp, bitter smile passed over her face. "And in _this_ business, everything is about other people's misfortunes, not mine." She sighed. "Working in insurance is for the vindictive and the miserable."

Which was she? I wondered. My eyes wandered along her desk. It was practically bare except for papers that were all too obviously work-related. The only elements of personality were a small dog statuette and a framed picture. This lone picture was a still, Muggle-style photograph of a small boy with untidy dark hair and pale brown eyes. He reminded me of someone. "Is that Hector?" I asked, pointing at it. I hadn't seen the child since he was a baby.

Hermione looked at the picture as though she had never seen it before, and then glared at it as if it annoyed her. "Yes, it is," she said impatiently. I looked more closely. There was something subtly wrong about the photograph, and it was not just the fact that the boy inside did not move. Yes, he had reminded me of someone, but that someone was not Ron Weasley. It was someone I had seen much more recently than that.

I was still attempting to puzzle this out when Hermione stood up and said, "Look, I'm going to have to cut this little reunion short. I have a meeting in ten minutes. I will see you on Friday." She paused and smiled. "And I'll probably have Hector with me, so you can see what he looks like now. That picture is two years old." She sighed. "I do get to look after him occasionally, but I always end up being made to feel like an incompetent teenage babysitter."

We had little choice but to leave, and in truth I did it gladly, as the presence of so much electrical equipment was making me feel uncomfortable. I wondered why Hermione didn't seem to notice it. Draco was silent as we made our way to an isolated spot to Apparate, and so was I. I was busy thinking about that photograph of Hector, of the face, the hair, the gleam in the eyes. I would know for sure when I saw him on Friday, but even now I was certain that there was something here, some secret waiting to be discovered.


	9. Sweet Charity

By Thursday evening, the tantalising mystery of the photograph was a faraway memory, an improbable thing that I was starting to think had been nothing but a trick of the light or my foolish desire for excitement.  The important thing was the meal and its purpose - though, as the day approached when we would hopefully discover the solution to our telepathy problem, time itself seemed to slow down.  Friday evening was an eternity away as I sat in my office with a pile of third year essays, listlessly marking them.

Of course, eternity passes much more pleasantly in the company of a pretty face, so I was pleased and grateful when Charity knocked on my door and practically begged me to save her from her family. It was boring in the hospital wing, she said, and she would much rather spend time with someone who didn't smear chocolate all over his face, or speak in pompous polysyllables. I wondered whether she objected to the company of her mother, but realised that what with Ernie, Andrew and Algy, Ginny probably had her hands too full to spare Charity any unnecessary attention.

"You have to save me, Theodore."  Despite the words, she was half-laughing.  Her distress was mostly theatrical, I could see, but there was a hint of real exasperation in her eyes that made me feel sorry for her. Of course, I would have felt sorry for anyone forced to spend any time at all with Ernie Macmillan. He had always grated on my nerves, even when we had fought practically side by side. He had never discriminated against the Slytherin fighters, as so many people had, but he had made it obvious that he was being so fair-minded, as if he expected some sort of recognition or gratitude for it. Most of us would rather be shunned than feel beholden to a man like Ernie.

"What d'you need saving from?" I asked, archly, looking up from a rather poorly written essay on werewolves. "You're perfectly safe here in Hogwarts, you know. I can't see any angry dragons on the rampage, or anything like that." She glared at me, and I caught myself noticing that she was extremely pretty when she was angry. It was obviously because she resembled her mother so much.

She threw herself down into a dangerously spindly chair, and said, "Oh, it's nothing as exciting as a dragon." Her voice was lightly contemptuous. "Only that Ernie _will_ bore me to tears. I've no idea how mum stands him. I certainly can't." She looked at me with piercing green eyes, and I wondered whether she knew how I felt about her mother. Surely no Slytherin could fail to spot something so poorly concealed, and Charity had a Slytherin's eyes despite her Gryffindor heart. And if she _did_ know, then she must have known that I would be a sympathetic audience to her complaints about her step-father. I smiled. Life was simpler when people behaved like Slytherins.

"He must surely have some good features, even if he keeps them well hidden." I smirked, but tried to keep my tone reasonable even as the insults left my tongue. Charity looked amused. "Your mother's not a fool, you know. _She_ must like Ernie, and if she does, it must be for a good reason."

Charity snorted. "From what I've been told, my mother was always a fool when it came to men. How she came to marry my father, who was the most eligible bachelor in, well, the entire world, I will never know." She cast a sidelong glance at me, her eyes narrowed slyly. "I'd have preferred you to Ernie, you know." She had never said such a thing aloud before.  Neither of us had ever admitted the possibility that I could have been her step-father rather than merely her favourite teacher.

"That was never on the cards." I kept my voice level and pushed away any regret.  "There was never anything like that between your mother and me." Not that I hadn't wanted it. Not that I hadn't asked myself, over and over again, why Ginny would choose such a man as Ernie when she could have had me. I didn't think that much of myself, and I certainly wouldn't describe myself as any sort of prize, but I had thought that she and I were friends. I _knew_ her. And the woman I had thought I knew would not have been so cruel as to marry another man, knowing how I felt. Unless she loved him, of course, but I had seen Ginny and Ernie together, and I did not think that her feelings for him were anything like her feelings for Harry had been.

"Well, more fool her," Charity said, lightly. "But never mind that now, Theodore. I'm bored as anything, and talking about _him_ will only make that worse. I almost wish that you weren't too _moral_ to give me something really horrible to use on him. Like one of those old Indian curses you used to tell us about." I didn't like the glint in her eyes at that moment. I'd never thought that she was like that, never imagined that the darker side of magic was a part of her. I had never thought that the daughter of Harry Potter could ever truly relish the idea of hurting someone else.

I tried not to show it. She was probably just fed up with the man; I doubted she'd actually want to use Dark magic on him. "It's got nothing to do with morals," I protested. "It's simply that I can't do anything to harm the man while he's here, under the eyes of the Headmistress of Hogwarts herself. And besides, think of the mess." She laughed, and I was relieved; evidently she hadn't meant it after all. "I always think of all the repercussions before I act; that's what makes a Slytherin. If I decided to kill someone, I'd do it quietly and carefully, and I'd make sure that no one would know it was me.  Or even that it was murder."

She gave me a sharp look. "You are really very frightening sometimes, Theodore," she said. "When you were speaking just now, I almost thought that you might kill someone, if it suited you. But of course, you wouldn't, would you?"

I sighed. "I am a killer many times over, Charity."  It wasn't something I liked to dwell on, but it was true.  "Maybe killing in the heat of battle is different, but I _have_ killed in cold blood, too, when the situation called for it. I had to decide, sometimes, if someone should live or die. That type of power is intoxicating, but it's terrifying as well. Some days I would think: What gives me the power to say 'this man should die today'?  I was frightened of myself, knowing that if I ever started to believe I had the right to kill those people, I'd become a monster."

Charity looked disturbed by what I had said. I wondered what she had imagined a war hero really was. Did she think that we were all as her father had been, glowing, lion-hearted warriors struggling on in the face of adversity, capturing rather than killing? She was not a Slytherin, true, but she had a sharp mind; surely she should have realised that even the heroes of my House were spies and assassins, killers and destroyers. Fighting for a good cause doesn't make you good.

"I've heard plenty of stories about the war," she said, softly. "My mother was in the thick of it, and my father won it for us all. And yet I don't think I ever understood what the war _was_ , what it was like. I always liked to think I was so mature, but somehow I believed the fairy-tale lies my parents told me, about honour and glory. I hadn't thought that the war was a chivalrous meeting of knights on a battlefield, but the way you describe it, it seems just terribly brutal. Brutal and pointless."

"It was never pointless, Charity."  Or, at least, I couldn't believe that.  "The peace we have was won in slaughter." She looked disturbed by the notion, and I was, for a moment, at a loss as to why she had ever been Sorted into Gryffindor. The House of Lions was not renowned for its restraint in battle.

"The peace we _had._ " She corrected me, green eyes shining with something that I thought might have been unease, or even fear. "That's why I said it was pointless. You fought, you killed off your enemies, Voldemort was destroyed. But at the end, all we've got is another Dark Lord, another threat, still more carnage. Where will it end? Shouldn't we give up _now_ , while we've still got lives to lose?" She paused, looking down at her hands. "It's all so pointless. All of your efforts twenty years ago brought us here. All that energy expended simply to get back to where we started." The sudden smile that flashed across her face was very dark indeed.  "A futile cycle."

I stared at her. "This is a dark time, Charity, but… we can't give up. We never give up. Maybe for the some people, like your parents, it's because they think that the world needs them so badly. For people like me and Draco it's because we're stubborn and because we're not stupid enough to believe that our enemies would have mercy on us if we let them win." I sighed. "What on Earth has made you talk like this?"  It was almost unthinkable that Harry Potter's daughter should even speak of giving up the fight.

She seemed to know what I was thinking. "Other people say similar things," she snapped. "But I shouldn't, because my father was a hero. That's right, isn't it? He was banner-carrier for the Light in the last war, so I should be charging around, trying to get myself killed this time around. But I don't want to! I know what matters to _me_. What matters to me are my patients, my family, my _future_. I can't be selfless. I'm not selfless. People are _dying_ on both sides, and I wish they weren't. I don't care about sides; I just want it all to _stop_."

She was practically crying by this point. I felt sorry for her, although I couldn't agree with her. I was not a Light wizard by anyone's standards, but their cause – give or take a few showy declarations of equality and inclusiveness – was my cause. I knew that if we surrendered we would be destroyed. Everything would be destroyed. Light and Dark are not so much types of magic as they are states of mind, and a Dark Lord in power would be horrific for all concerned. Anything good that might exist in this fragile world dies the moment it is touched by someone like Viper.

"Neutrality isn't really an option."  It was almost an apology.  "In the end, everyone has to commit to a side, if only for their own protection." I thought of my family, the ever-neutral Notts, torn apart during the course of that last war when my father and I took up arms on opposite sides. Of my grandfather, neutral unto death, and his disappointment in his dark-hearted, tainted son. And I, in my attempt to avenge him, would have pleased him no better, with my heart full of hatred and my mind full of ideals that were emphatically not neutral.

She stared at me for a moment. Then she really did burst into tears, and threw herself into my arms to sob all the harder. I wondered whether it had become fashionable for pretty red-haired women to cry their hearts out on my shoulder. And why was she crying, anyway? Was she just disillusioned? And how could she be, when the war was barely started at all? I suppressed a smug thought about the weakness of the younger generation. _Is she just upset about the futility of it all? Or has she betrayed us all already?_

I pushed that thought away. _No. Never._ To look into her tear-filled green eyes was to know that she was really, truly upset. It could not be because of her step-father. She and I could insult the man till kingdom come, but he didn't mean enough for her to shed tears over him. I'd never seen her so emotional. She hadn't cried when her home had been torched; she'd defended her little brother as best she could. I didn't understand it.

And then she kissed me, and I stopped trying to understand it. In fact, I stopped thinking at all. Possibly my heart stopped beating for a second or two. I felt as stunned as if I had taken a Bludger to the back of the head. I shut my eyes, more in shock than anything else, thinking that when I opened them, it would all have been just a dream, a trick of the light, a sick fantasy, anything other than real.

_But it was real._ And I kissed her back, not questioning whether I wanted _her_ or if I was thinking of Ginny instead. I didn't think about that.  I didn't _want_ to think about that.  What good would thinking about it do?

Eventually, she pulled away again, laughing even as the old tears ran down her cheeks. "I've been very silly today, Theodore."  Her voice was light, and my heart sank. What did she mean by that? "I shouldn't have got so upset. I don't know why I did." She smiled, wryly. "It's not very _adult_ to burst into tears at the first thought of a war, is it? We're supposed to pretend that nothing matters to us, that we have nothing to lose, that as long as we survive, all is right with the world. And I'm supposed to have a love of heroics – to want to plunge in and save any kittens that happen to be in danger." Her voice was laced with irony.

I remembered Draco's opinion of Gryffindors at school, and I thought that he would probably have agreed with her back then, sarcasm or no. But I shrugged, and said, "You shouldn't judge yourself like that. You're a Gryffindor, yes, but that's not all you are." She looked at me, puzzled. "You can't define yourself solely by your House. I mean, look at Slytherin: there are so many conflicting things said about our House that anyone attempting to be the perfect Slytherin would go mad. Or have multiple personalities."

She laughed. "I suppose so." She seemed happier now, but I was still on edge. What had her kiss meant? Why hadn't she said anything about it? What had she come here for in the first place? She didn't seem inclined to put my mind and rest just yet, instead continued, "And aren't you and Professor Malfoy examples that Slytherins aren't always as bad as other people seem to think they are?"

"I don't know."  I struggled to reply; my mind was very definitely elsewhere. "Draco's very Slytherin – all family pride and subtle manipulations. He plays life carefully, like a game of chess with infinite stakes." I steeled myself. I was done with edging around the subject and talking about Slytherin ethics. "Charity." I employed my serious teacher voice, and a slightly alarmed look crept into her eyes. "Why did you come here tonight?" Unasked but hanging in the air between us were other questions that I didn't quite know how to ask. _W_ _hy did you kiss me? Why make my life still more complicated?_

She stared back at me, eyes wide and stricken. "I… oh, I don't know!"  I could hear the tumult of emotions; she was confused, upset, angry with herself... but not disgusted, not dismayed, not _afraid_.  Her eyes were clear now, her earlier tears drying on her cheeks.  "You… I felt as if I could say anything to you, and you'd listen. Because you hate my step-father. But you love my mother, and I…" Her voice trailed away. I started. She hadn't been about to say _that_ , had she?

"Charity." I said her name sadly, regretfully, not wanting to say what I knew I ought to say. "I'm much too old for you." _Too old, and too in love with your mother. It's not fair on you, girl, it's really not fair._ "You… you're beautiful. You could have anyone you wanted. Why would you want me?"

"You think I'd be wasting myself on you.  And that's not true.  Just because my mother is apparently blind doesn't mean that I have to be." She smiled, suddenly, and it was a very cunning smile indeed. "And among purebloods, men much older than you are have married girls of eighteen or nineteen. Horrible, inbred men with warts or hanging jowls." The very thought made her shudder.  "And, like I told you last week – _you aren't old_. A man who can run around the country after evil madmen can't possibly be too old." I shook my head. _Smith's not mad. But evil – that, yes._

There seemed to be nothing I could say in the face of her persistence. "But Charity, you know... you know how I feel…"

She cut me off. "About my mother? Yes. Of course I know." She sighed. "I don't care about that. I'm not a little fool. I know the score here. If I know the truth and _I don't care_ , how is it wrong? Unless you don't want me at all, but if that were true, you'd have sent me away before now."

She was right. If I weren't so weak, I might have done. But was it weakness that made me hesitate? Or was it something else, something more devastating? _I can't love her and her mother both, can I?_ It would be dangerous to allow her to stay. She might or might not love me, but I was in love with her mother and always had been. It didn't take a Ravenclaw to work out that this wasn't going to work. Someone would get hurt – possibly everyone involved would get hurt. But she was looking at me with her green eyes filled with fire and it was hard – so hard – to resist her.

And should I _try_ to resist her? She wasn't a student any longer; she was a woman of nineteen who knew her own mind. She'd told me herself: she knew the score. I wouldn't be taking advantage of her, or exploiting a young girl's naivety – she had seen death by the time she was ten, and had next to no naivety left to exploit. We were both adults. This wasn't wrong. And yet: _descensus Averno facilis est._

_Easy is the descent into Hell_.

The temptation was there, standing before me with her lustrous red hair and a sly smile in her glowing green eyes. They were her father's eyes. Her father, Harry Potter, who had saved my life several times over. I would be deluding myself if I believed that he wouldn't attempt to eviscerate me with the Sword of Gryffindor for even contemplating touching his little girl.

_I'm sorry, Harry. But_ she _asked_ me _, really she did._

"You little temptress," I breathed.

She smiled, and I realised that I had given her an answer in my tone of voice. Evidently it had been the answer she wanted. "You flatter me."  Her voice was as soft as the light in her eyes.  "But I don't think I could make you do anything that you don't want to do." She laughed. "I'm not going to hurt you, and you're not going to hurt me. You're a Slytherin, and me – well, this was _my_ idea. We can keep the morals and recriminations out of this, can't we? At least for tonight."

And then I knew _exactly_ why she had come to my office. I wasn't surprised.  Perhaps nothing would have surprised me just then. A wave of anticipation crept through me, gaining hold of my senses by stealth. But it still didn't seem real. Didn't seem as if this should be happening to me. What had I done to deserve her? Why should she want me? But if there was one thing that my unfortunate relationship with love had taught me, it was that nothing to do with emotions made any sense at all.


	10. Unguarded Moments

"Hector, please! Stop kicking that can!"

Hermione sounded at the end of her tether when she finally arrived at the restaurant _rendezvous_ , trailed by her sulky-looking son. He glared at her for telling him off, and there was a fire in his dark eyes that I recognised from somewhere. Not from Ron, surely, because I had never spent enough time looking at the man to know his mannerisms. It was possible that the boy had inherited his aunt's temper, of course, but then I didn't think that Hector reminded me of Ginny, either.

She sank down into the chair we had left empty for her and buried her head in her hands. "Sometimes I don't know why I bother," she sighed. Then she looked up and shook her head. "I'm sorry. Just a hard day at work, and then _Ron_ had to be a complete nightmare. I thought he wouldn't let me leave the Burrow when he found out that his precious son was going to be in the presence of Slytherins for a couple of hours."  Hermione rolled her eyes. Then her gaze returned to her son, who was still standing up, hands in his pockets and a mulish expression on his face. "Sit down, Hector, or you won't get any pizza."

Her voice was softer this time, and the boy nearly fell over himself to obey. I had always wondered how Hermione would cope with being a mother, and was surprised by how well she seemed to manage it – though perhaps I shouldn't have been; she'd spent years mothering Harry and Ron. It puzzled me no end that the courts had decided to award Hector to his father. Ron Weasley had always struck me as incapable of organising a bun-fight in a bakery, so how anyone could have thought him fit to raise a child was beyond me.

_But he's a pure-blood_ , I thought, and for a moment I was annoyed on Hermione's behalf. I was old-fashioned in certain of my views, but I tended to look at people and see _people_ , rather than receptacles for "pure" or "tainted" blood. Draco found this more difficult than I did, but even _he_ accepted Hermione as an almost-equal. That the Ministry could be more bigoted than a Malfoy was ridiculous beyond belief, but it appeared to be true.

Grey eyes glittered with amusement as Draco said, "Was it Slytherins in general that he was worried about, or was it because I'm one of them?" It was a fair question; in a way, I had always thought that Ron hated Draco far more than Harry ever had. It was probably because Harry had always had better things to worry about than antagonising a fellow student; in his world, enmity meant that someone was trying to kill you, not that they were trying to sabotage your game of Quidditch.

Hermione shook her head, not in denial but in incomprehension. "I don't know," she said, wearily. "I'm fed up with trying to understand him. I only hope that Hector doesn't grow up to be like him. In any way." Draco smirked to hear his one remaining Gryffindor foe bad-mouthed. I was more uneasy. By all accounts, Hermione had _loved_ Ron once. To hear _her_ speak about her ex-husband in the same way that Draco habitually did was more disturbing than anything else.

Looking at Hector, it was fair to say that he was very much his mother's child. The dark-brown, curly hair was hers, as were the pale, cinnamon coloured eyes. When he had been sulking, his sullen brow had made him resemble his father more, and he certainly had a Weasley's freckles, but he did not look much like Ron at all. For that I was grateful; I had a feeling that it would be hard on my nerves and especially on Draco's if our table was graced by a mini replica of Ronald Weasley.

We were given menus, and Hector began to whine that the restaurant did not do exactly the right type of pizza. Draco caught my eye and smirked; he was probably feeling superior, as usual - though this time with some justification, since at that age Dorado had been considerably better behaved, and Draco himself would sooner have _died_ than been so undignified in public. Hermione conversed with Hector in low, sharp tones, and his face turned sad and pouty when he realised that his tricks were not going to get him anywhere with his mother.

Draco pretended not to have noticed this little episode, behaving exactly as a well-bred gentleman ought. He shook out his menu and announced, "The fettuccini sounds good, don't you think, Theodore?" Following his lead, I looked at him and the pasta section of the menu, allowing Hermione to scold her son in peace.

Eventually everyone had reached a decision, including Hector, and we could talk over our drinks. Hermione smiled in a triumphant manner reminiscent of Draco and said, "You won't believe it, but I think I've found your answer." She leant towards us across the table. "There are a few possibilities, some more likely than others, but we can look at my notes later. I think that the most probable solution is some sort of runic communication. That was very common indeed in ancient times; the apparently impossible feat of Smith's escape wouldn't have seemed so to the people of three thousand years ago."

"So, Viper's a historian, then," Draco said, dryly. Hermione shot him an irritated look; I imagined that she disliked anyone making light of learning - especially hers. "Though they say, 'he who knows no history is doomed to repeat it', and Viper seems determined to repeat history in any way he can." He fell silent and stared into space. Perhaps he was remembering a time when he was young and foolish, yet resourceful enough to bypass some of the strongest wards in the country. He smiled a thin, bitter smile. For all his regrets, he was probably still proud that his feat had not been equalled before or since.

Hermione's thoughts were evidently running along the same tracks as mine, because she said now, "If he wants to repeat your little piece of history, he'll have his work cut out. I know for a fact that Harry destroyed those cabinets after the funeral. No easy way in for Viper." Draco bristled at hearing his moment of glory dismissed as _easy_ , and I glanced around worriedly, because we were in a restaurant, surrounded by Muggles and yet they were talking quite openly about magic.

"Should we perhaps save the technical discussion for after dinner?" I suggested. "We can't talk freely here." Hector was looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He had his mother's eyes – wide, soft, light brown eyes that showed his emotions as clear as daylight. He was bored with the general conversation, but he was interested in me. I could tell that quite easily; his face reflected his feelings faithfully. Gryffindors did tend to wear their hearts on their sleeves, although that didn't mean that they were all soft romantics – surely Charity proved that point.

But as the little boy looked at me, I looked back at him, searching for any resemblance to his father. There were no _obvious_ similarities there – I had seen that much earlier, and been relieved that it was so. And yet there should surely be some indications in this boy's face, demeanour, personality or way of speaking that he was Ron Weasley's son. I looked. It was then that I realised who I had thought he looked like when I saw his picture. He looked like _Andrew_ , Ginny's son. I would have laughed out loud at myself had I not been in a crowded place. There was no mystery here. The boy resembled his cousin. Maybe both of them took after some recent Weasley ancestor.

It was then that the food arrived, and the conversation was suspended, since we were all too polite to eat and talk at the same time. Even Hector seemed conscious of this rule of etiquette – or possibly he just didn't want to speak. He seemed almost to relish silence. That was unusual in a boy his age. But how old was he? Certainly less than eleven, but not much less. I guessed that he was about nine or ten. He'd been living with Weasley and his mother since he was four. That household must be more than averagely noisy to make the boy savour quiet so much.

A thought drifted into my mind. _Ten years ago, Harry Potter was dying_. I wondered why I had thought that. Was it guilt, perhaps, from last night? Guilt that I had taken advantage of – except that I _hadn't_ – an innocent young girl whose father was long dead, a man whom I had once counted as a friend. Or was it something else? Why should I think of Harry now? Wasn't it bad enough that I couldn't look into Charity's eyes without seeing him? He was _there_ – there was so much more of his presence in his daughter than there was in his son. Maybe that was because of the eyes.

The food was excellent – even Draco had to pronounce it 'good' – and I reflected that Hermione Granger definitely had taste. _Except, of course, when she had chosen her husband._ Shocked by such a caustic thought, I reminded myself that that union was yet another result of the madness of love. If I had loved Ginny faithfully for twenty-two years despite the total lack of encouragement, why should those two not have fallen in love and married? It was, after all, almost _expected_ of them. The two great friends of Harry Potter had been destined to marry, just as he had been destined to marry the girl I loved. _And then destined to die._

Hector's querulous voice rose again at this point. "Mum, can I have some ice-cream, please?"

Hermione looked irritated at this, but Draco smoothed down the quarrel by saying, "I wonder if they do tiramisu here. I think I could manage a slice. In fact, it'll go perfectly with the rest of this wine, don't you think, Theodore?"

I smiled. "You have your tiramisu, Draco," I replied. "But I think I'll join Hector here in a bowl of ice-cream." My friend rolled his eyes at this shockingly unrefined decision, and Hermione seemed annoyed that I was encouraging the boy. Blissfully ignoring her obvious state of aggravation, I turned to her and said, "Will you be having anything, Hermione, or will it just be a coffee?"  I leant towards her and lowered my voice. "I think Draco's paying, so you ought to have whatever you want."

In spite of herself, she smiled. "You're good, Theodore, I'll give you that. You know full well that I could never resist getting one over on a Slytherin if the chance presented itself." I grinned lopsidedly at her, and as I did so I caught a glimpse of Hector out of the corner of my eye. His facial expression was odd – a slightly twisted smile, as if he had tried to sneer and couldn't master it. Now _that_ reminded me of someone. Not Andrew Potter – he wasn't subtle enough to sneer. He laughed at people outright.

"So you'll have a nice _tartufo_ , then," I said, deliberately not making it a question. "Because I think I will."

"What's a tartu-thing?" asked Hector, suspiciously.

"It's like ice-cream," said Draco, cheerfully. "Only a bit richer. If I were you I'd just have chocolate ice-cream, because you get more of it." Hector appeared to consider this very seriously, and then nodded. Desserts and coffees were ordered. The little boy made a fuss because he was not allowed a coffee – _it's really not good for children your age_ , his mother said, definitely – but this was quickly quashed by the threat of no ice-cream.

We took our time over the desserts and coffee, talking. It had been a long time since either of us had seen Hermione, and though she and I had never been particular friends, we got along well enough. She was pleasant to talk to, although she didn't make jokes or understand them very well. It was obvious that Hector hadn't been brought up by his mother – he was continually trying to butt into the conversation. Had she been the one disciplining him, I was certain that his manners would have been better, and he would soon have grown out of this attention-seeking. _Attention-seeker_ – now why did that remind me of Snape?

Eventually we made our way back to Hermione's flat. Draco didn't seem very comfortable there – he hated to spend too long in a room with electrical equipment, and he flinched when Hector turned on the coloured box in the corner. It had a name, I remembered: _television_. I looked at it with interest, wondering what it showed and how it worked. As I was looking at the box, I saw Hector's face in flickering half-light. And then I knew the truth. In that one elusive glimpse, _I saw everything_.

The realisation shocked me, although I realised with hindsight that I had been very stupid not to see it before. There were still some things that I didn't understand, but I knew the one overwhelming truth. I had to contain myself so as not to blurt everything out at once. But I wouldn't stay silent forever. My blood ran hot as I realised the implications of what I'd just discovered. _No one's perfect. Not even her. Not even him. But, for God's sake, how could they?_

"Theodore," Hermione snapped. "You aren't listening. What's the point of me using my spare evenings to help you when you can't be bothered to pay attention?" I wheeled round to face her, and it was all that I could do not to shout the truth at her, desperate to see her furrowed brow straighten and her narrowed eyes widen in shock, fear and shame. I controlled myself with a little effort. I was a Slytherin. Information discovered about another person was to be stored away in the memory for a future time at which it might prove useful.

"Sorry," I said, trying to sound as normal as possible, and not like a man with secret knowledge. _But it's not my secret, is it?_   "The Egyptian wizards used runes tattooed into the skin as well as engraved into stone, didn't you say?"

Hermione appeared mollified by this. "Yes. But not just tattooed into the _skin_ , you understand. The runes were carefully woven into the magical core as well. You can't transport anything, even information, by a rune if that rune is not connected to a powerful source of magic. A human magical core will do quite well." She flicked through a large book, propping it open at a particular page. "See here. This is what they did. Not telepathy. It's just the lost Egyptian art of runic semaphore."

She read aloud: " _The spy or scout having been tattooed with one of the rune symbols – normally the 'blank' or 'all clear'_ waterfall _rune – could then leave the camp and go out to gather information. The thirty-two rune system meant that the scout could send messages by manipulating his rune. Any alterations to the rune showed up on a flat surface – a rock wall or a large piece of papyrus – connected to the tattoo by some early version of the Protean charm. The system was set up so that the 'alarm' rune – usually the_ fire _symbol – could only be activated by chanting of a release incantation. It is uncertain whether merely_ thinking _the words of this 'safety catch' chant would have been sufficient."_

She looked up. "I think that's it," she said, excitedly. "I know it doesn't tell us how to do it, but we don't need to know that, do we? We're not trying to _emulate_ Viper's methods, just understand them. Though I think we can safely say that merely thinking the words is sufficient, given that Smith was bound and silenced." Suddenly she looked grave. "I wonder if that's how he's had so many lucky escapes. Maybe it's not luck at all.  Maybe there's a traitor on your – _our_ – side. Someone who was telling Smith where Terry and his patrols would be. It's plausible. The spy manipulates _his_ rune, causing a change in the rune on the flat surface. Then that could change Smith's rune… and he'd seem to be omniscient."

This seemed horribly plausible. _An inside man_. Someone who had betrayed us, was still betraying us to Smith and his masked master. "So first we have to find the spy." It was almost nostalgic. "If we don't, Smith and Viper will always be one step ahead of us."

Draco shook his head. "Is this magic something that can be undone?" he asked. "If we can somehow disentangle his rune from his magical core – we'll stop his intelligence system. Or kill him. Either sounds perfectly fine to me."

Hermione winced at Draco's casual ruthlessness. "Don't talk about killing in front of Hector," she admonished him, ignoring the fact that her son appeared to be watching a particularly violent scene on the television box. As I watched, a man had his head blown off by one of the long, metal wands that Muggles used. _Guns_ , I remembered. I didn't know how they worked, either. They launched bits of metal through the air, and the metal balls hit people and killed them. But how did _that_ work? What made the metal fly? It looked like magic, and yet Muggles had made it.

Draco smirked. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again," he said, in a charmingly insincere voice. Hermione glowered, but he swung himself out of the chair he'd been sitting in and said, "It's been lovely, but I must go. I've got essays to mark, and perhaps I ought to remind _my_ son that I exist." He threw on his coat. "You coming, Theodore? It's half past nine already. Don't you have work to be getting on with as well?"

I waved him away. "None that can't wait," I said. "I'll stay and help Hermione put away her books. I'll be about fifteen minutes. Maybe I'll come and bother you for some brandy when I get back, okay?" He looked at me quizzically, and then nodded. There was confusion in his eyes. He didn't understand what I'd want to stay for. If it had been Ginny, he would have known my reasons and teased me for them, but with Hermione, he couldn't see any reason at all for me to stay. And that was because he hadn't looked closely at Hector all night.

"Nice of you to help," Hermione said, as Draco Apparated away. Her voice was slightly sharp – she was wary. She knew that Slytherins didn't often do anything out of the goodness of their hearts, and she was wondering what my ulterior motive could be. She had a right to be worried, of course, but she couldn't know my reason. If she knew, she wouldn't just be uneasy. She might be angry. She might even be frightened. But I simply smiled and picked up a couple of the heavier books, following her into her study. Once there, I let the door swing shut behind me, put the books down on her desk, and then went and stood solidly between her and the exit. Now she could hide, but she couldn't run.

"What are you doing?" she asked, panic just creeping in at the edge of her voice. I realised that my actions could be seen as very suspicious. I hadn't handled this well, really; if I wasn't careful, I could be accused of treachery. And nothing was further from my mind than betraying my side, my _people_. It was a shame that the same couldn't be said for the woman who stood before me. _A traitor to her friend_ , I thought, and hardened my heart to her fear.

I opened my arms wide.  "I don't want to hurt you.  Why would I?" She frowned at me. "I'm going to ask you a question, and you're going to answer it." She looked as if she might protest at this, so I pressed on, "And the answer you give me had better be the truth, I can tell you." I could see fear in her eyes and hear it in the rasp of her quickened breathing. She was preparing to scream, I could tell. So I steeled myself and took a deep breath to deliver my bombshell. "Hermione, _Hector isn't Ron Weasley's son, is he?"_


	11. Deductions and Revelations

Hermione stared at me for a full minute, and in that minute she gave herself away. Indignation replaced her fear, but it was too late to convince me.  "I don't know what you mean.  Don't you think I would've _said_ something by now if he wasn't?  Why on Earth would I have let Ron take Hector if he wasn't his?  Do you really think I'm that much of a fool?"

I fixed her with my most steely stare. "Do you really think _I'm_ a fool?" I asked, wearily. " _I know_ , I tell you – I _know_. I know the truth, so I know that you are lying." She looked uncertain. Did she believe me? It didn't matter. I knew that I was right. My proof lay in her change in expression as I had asked my question. "And I imagine – though I'm not sure about this – that you didn't say anything at the time because you didn't want to dishonour the dead."

She startled and then stared at me, perplexed. "I don't see how you can _know_ ," she breathed. "No one else has ever guessed. No one else has ever even suspected. Not even Molly Weasley. So why you? _Why you?_ And why now?"

"Everyone looks at other people," I said, quietly. 'I actually _see_ them. He looks very much like his father, you know.  Oh, not obviously, not so that anyone might notice it, but in some ways he _is_ his father."  I looked straight into her eyes.  "He looks like Andrew, you know.  That's the first thing I noticed.  He looks like Andrew.  But I was stupid; I thought that, since they're supposed to be related, that was alright.  I thought that they must both resemble some Weasley great-uncle or something. But there was a much more obvious solution there, staring me in the face, and I didn't see it until later."

She snorted. "That's all? Why shouldn't he look like Andrew? After all, they're cousins."

I shook my head, and her composure fractured again. "No.  Not cousins." She stared, her eyes imploring me not to say the words. I said them. " _Half-brothers_."

She cried then. Really cried. I didn't think it was because I'd found her out. They were tears of sorrow, or maybe remorse. Did she regret it? I wondered. She choked out, "How did you work that out? You said yourself that he might look like Andrew for any reason, given how closely related they are... supposed to be."

I shrugged. "In the light of the television, he looked just like Harry in the glow of a luminescent potion," I said. "And there are other reasons. Charity has her father's fire, and Hector made me think of her. There's something of Harry in him, if you look closely enough. And I did look." She sighed through the tears.  "I'm surprised Draco didn't notice, really.  He always spent more time staring at Harry than I did. But I suppose that he didn't look at Hector at all. You have to look to see."

She gave a brittle laugh. "True enough," she replied. "But why… what was _Draco's_ relationship to Harry, then?"

I guessed that she had always wanted to know the answer to this. There'd been speculation among the members of the Order, but no one had ever known for sure.  Not even me.  "I don't know, to be honest with you. He never said anything about it.  I mean, he told me what he and Harry used to say to one another, but not what they used to _do_ to one another." Hermione gave a tight smile at my choice of words. "But I always imagined that he married a green-eyed woman for a reason." I took a deep breath and shook my head. "But that's got nothing to do with this. Let's start again. I know that Hector is Harry Potter's son. What I don't know is _when_ and _why_. And _how_ could either of you do that to Ginny? She was supposed to be your friend!"

Hermione stared. "Are you her knight-gallant?" Her voice sounded shaky. "It's a shame she doesn't appreciate you more. But the truth is that she wouldn't deserve you. She wouldn't deserve you, just as she didn't deserve Harry." She paused to allow her sudden anger to subside. "She did in the beginning. I was happy for them. They were perfect for one another. _You_ knew that. But something changed. I don't know what, or why, but something changed. If she'd been the same Ginny I'd always known, I would never have done it. That I swear."

I nodded, wonderingly. She was different _now_ , certainly, but I'd blamed that on Macmillan. Had I been too harsh? Since Harry had died, I hadn't seen much of Ginny, and during his terminal illness I had probably explained away any differences in her behaviour as being due to the stress and pain. _Had she stopped being the girl I loved before Harry had died?_ And if so, why? I sensed that this was not a question that Hermione could help me answer. Maybe it was a question that I would never be able to answer.

"Your excuses aren't important."  It was too harsh and I knew it.  I just didn't care.  "I suppose you wouldn't have done it if you'd been completely happy with Ron, either. I don't suppose – I don't really blame _you_. But he's dead, and nothing I say can touch him." I thought about Harry Potter, surprised by the words I was about to say. "I suppose he was very good at loyalty to a cause, and loyalty to his friends - but never very good at _faithfulness_. That's why I wasn't that surprised when I realised. I was more surprised that _you'd_ done it than that he had. I would never have thought that of you."

She shrugged. "No one would," she said, sadly. "That's why I've been safe. Surprising enough that _one_ man wanted to sleep with the bushy-haired know-it-all Mudblood, let alone _two_." There was viciousness in her voice. And she'd said that word – _Mudblood_ – a word that I seldom heard even Draco say any more. Had she been bullied by people less restrained than my Malfoy friend? Was _that_ why she'd left our world?  "And you shouldn't judge Harry." Still loyal to him, after all this time. "He was completely starved of affection for ten years. Was it any wonder that he should find one person's love _not enough?"_

I thought of myself. Who had ever loved _me?_ What sort of excuse was that, for this or any other behaviour? _My family didn't love me, so I have to sleep with anyone who's willing_. I didn't say anything out loud – it might have been seen as a play for sympathy. "Maybe I shouldn't judge him," I conceded. "But I want to know how you managed it. Ten years ago, Harry was _dying_. He had two nurses watching him most nights. I don't believe Ginny ever left his side for more than a few minutes."

"You give her too much credit." Hermione laughed. "You always have. She's _human_ , you know. She had two children – one of them a baby – to look after, so she couldn't have been always by Harry's bedside." Suddenly she sobered, her eyes shadowed with remembered pain.  "He was dying. I went to see him and he looked awful. My friend. My oldest friend. He was wasting away. I've always loved him, although never in that way, never in the way I loved Ron. But for a while, for that half-hour, I _did_. It made him _happy_. It was all I could have done. He was my friend, and I could never have denied him, not when I could see that within six months he'd be dead."

I couldn't find it in my heart to condemn her. "And was he dead within six months?"  I was fairly sure I knew the answer.

She snorted. "Of course he wasn't," she said. "Since when did Harry ever die when he was expected to? Hector was nearly three months old when his father died. I always wondered if he _knew_. He probably did. No one ever gave him any sort of credit for his intelligence. It was always – _oh, Harry's so brave, so strong, so powerful._ But he was clever, too. And good at seeing things that no one else knew were there." She gave a deep, deep sigh. "I suppose if I'd been in love with him, that might have excused me. But then, love can't excuse everything." Then she looked at me, her worry obvious. "Are you going to tell anyone?"

"No." I wouldn't, either. I didn't want to be the bearer of bad news, just in case someone decided to curse me for it.  "But you should. It'd be better for _you_ , surely; you could get Hector back. For good. Ron's not his father – his father's _dead_ – so there's no one else in the world with more claim than you. And... I hate to think of Ginny not knowing. I won't be able to face her, knowing that she doesn't have the first idea about it."

"What good would it do?" Hermione asked, desperately. "To tell anyone – everyone – now. Why should I do that? No one will ever speak to me again. And no wizard council would let a magical child be cared for by a woman who works in _insurance_. Don't say I could come back. Could I, really, after all this time?" She frowned at me. "Will you want something for keeping silent, then?"

Well, _that_ was more than a little offensive.  "I'm no blackmailer," I said, sharply. "I wouldn't dream of it. I ask only for information." I turned and threw the office door open, calling over my shoulder as I left, "And I really think you should tell them." I heard a muffled sob behind me, and I wondered how she had managed to live with this terrible secret for so long without breaking down. I didn't know whether _I_ would've managed it, and I had more experience than most of living a lie.

As soon as I got back to the castle, I made my way into Draco's dungeons. I found my friend seated at the desk in his office, bent over a large number of rolls of parchment, a half-glass of brandy sitting nearby. He looked up as I knocked on the open door. His eyes narrowed. "So what was all of _that_ about?"  Draco could be subtle, but a good portion of the time he went for blunt instead. "Or do I not want to know?" He had a gift for making people uncomfortable, and even I, who knew his tricks well, fidgeted slightly under that stony grey gaze.

"Nothing like that," I said, briskly, in an attempt to put him off the trail. This was not my secret – it wouldn't hurt _me_ if it came out – but I didn't want to be the one responsible for it becoming public. I might be a Slytherin, but I was only underhanded when it came to dealing with enemies. I never played my friends false, and I had assured Hermione that I wouldn't tell. Nothing Draco would do to me would make me break that. "It's not something I want to talk to you about. If you were more observant, maybe you'd have worked it out for yourself."

It would have been undignified for Draco to have persisted in his questioning in the face of a flat denial - and my insult to his skills - so he did not. "Suit yourself."  He gave an ironic half-smile.  Reaching out and dipping his quill into red ink, he added, "You just missed Macmillan; he was here barely five minutes ago. Actually, he was here when I got back. Not in this room – I keep it locked – but waiting outside. I think he was waiting for you." I wondered why. Had Ernie been Charity's father, I would have known instantly, but as it was I could see no reason why he should be outraged at my conduct. Draco smirked. "Apparently something happened last night?"

I glared at him half-heartedly. "Something might have happened last night," I said, frostily. "But why should that be any of your business? I don't really see why it's any of _Macmillan's_ business, even. He's not Charity's father. It's got nothing to do with him." No sooner had I finished speaking than I realised that I'd made a mistake. I'd given the game away. Draco looked surprised for a moment, before shock was superseded by a triumphant, knowing smirk. _He hadn't known_ , I realised. He hadn't known about Charity until I'd told him.

"Aha!" he crowed. "Charity now, is it? And here was I thinking that you'd finally got up the courage to seduce Ginny behind his back!" He paused for a moment and frowned, evidently beginning to realise how strange it was that Ernie had been attempting to defend Charity's honour. "But you're right. Why should he _care_? What _did_ he want to see you for?" Then the smirk crept back. "I suppose it's not important. But you, Theodore – I never would've thought the day would come when I'd see you making a move on a younger woman. You're a lucky sod, I suppose you know that. You deserve a bit of luck, though, after all you've been through."

I snorted. "You make my past sound so much worse than it actually was," I objected. "And I didn't _make a move on_ Charity, as you so gracefully put it. She instigated it." He looked sceptical. I sighed. "Come on, Draco, do you honestly believe that I'd attempt to seduce a nineteen-year-old girl? And she's _not_ a substitute for Ginny," I added, wondering if this was true or if I was just saying it in an attempt to convince myself. "I've given up on her. Truth be told, I gave up on her when she married Macmillan. Nothing else she could've done would have told me more convincingly that she wanted nothing to do with me."

Draco shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Nothing else could've told _me_ more convincingly that she needed her head examined," he said, smirking. "But I don't want to talk about her. That'll only make you depressed again." He looked at me and I felt suddenly uncomfortable. He had a way of making me feel as if he really _saw_ me, as if he could see my soul. I knew he couldn't do that; it wasn't _his_ gift.  He was one of the only Legilimens left in England, but I didn't think he was reading my mind. He wouldn't do that to me - and besides, Legilimency was not half so disturbing.

"Depressed? I'm not depressed," I protested. I hadn't been, not this week, anyway. I'd been too absorbed in my twin mysteries. I didn't say that to Draco; Hermione's secret was not mine to tell. I'd promised her I wouldn't, and Slytherin or not, I kept my promises. "I don't _get_ depressed." Draco snorted at this, but I ignored him. "I think I'll go back to my office," I said, after a minute. "Macmillan might come back, and, besides, you look busy. And I can't keep drinking your alcohol all the time."

He smirked. "Okay, then.  I'll let you get back to Charity. She's more interesting than I am, I'm sure."

"Draco!" I snapped, but he just grinned, thoroughly unrepentant. I wondered if he was so very far wrong. If I was honest with myself, I would have to admit that I had been hoping that the young redhead _might_ make an appearance tonight. It wasn't as if I'd hurry back if I had something better to be doing - but since Draco was busy, what else did I have to look forward to? I analysed my previous thoughts and snorted in spite of myself. _I'm not in denial_ , I thought, weakly.

My friend simply laughed. "Get on with you," he said, lightly. "I wouldn't stand between you and a little bit of happiness, Theo. Heaven knows, you must be owed some." He took a sip of brandy. "I could do with some, for that matter, but I don't see any pretty young girls throwing themselves at _me._ More's the pity." He looked wistful, but I couldn't tell if he was being serious. The mystery of Draco's sexuality had never been completely resolved, even for me. It didn't bother me particularly – we spoke about those things that were important to us. If Draco didn't tell me about his love life, then it simply wasn't important. But that wouldn't, I knew, stop him from teasing me about mine.

I refused to acknowledge any truth that might have been in his words. I didn't have to. As always, he knew me as well if not better than I did myself. I left the office with him shaking his head behind me, and made my way through the school to my own rooms. When I got there, I found that a young woman was indeed waiting there for me. Unfortunately, it was not the one I had been expecting – or maybe hoping – to find. Standing outside my door with an anguished expression and her fair hair disordered was Flora Dagworth.

I stared. "Flora?" I said, disbelievingly. She lifted her eyes to mine, and I gasped. There was such raw despair there that I took a step back to put distance between me and that intensity. "What happened to you?"

Her voice was tight with misery and suppressed anger. "Nothing's happened to _me_ ," she said. "It's my brother. Theodore, it's awful." Her shoulders shook as if she would cry. "I don't know what to do. I thought that, since you're the Defence teacher, you could help me. I didn't know where else to go!"

Life had given me a fair bit of experience of dealing with semi-hysterical women. I unlocked the door to my office and held it open for her, waving her inside and directing her to the softest chair I could find. Then I sat down facing her and tried to will compassion into my voice. "It's alright. I'll help you. If you just tell me what the problem is, then I'll help you with it, I promise." It was a sincere enough promise, but my mind was racing along other lines as I said it. Like _since when did Flora Dagworth have a brother?_

She stared at me for a moment, as if, now she was here, she was doubting the wisdom of letting someone else in on her secret. Eventually, however, her fear won out, and she said, "It's terrible, Theodore. My brother – he's young, foolish and pure-blooded. He was – oh, I hate to admit it – but he was one of Viper's men." I sucked in my breath sharply. Did this explain the unusual state of tension she'd been in recently? Another, more unpleasant thought hit me. Had she been telling her brother anything? Was she, possibly, the spy?

Filing away my suspicions carefully in the back of my mind, I turned back to the matter at hand. "You say he _was?_ _"_

Flora looked frightened, as if she'd only just realised the implications of her admission herself. "Yes." I was impressed that her voice didn't shake. "He was. But he said he had to escape. He had to run away. He came to see me because he didn't know what else to do! He's got no one else. I – he hid in a cave, outside Hogsmeade. No one goes out there. I thought he'd be safe!" Her eyes were wide with something that was not quite horror and yet stronger than mere disbelief. "I thought I was protecting _him_ from people who wanted to hurt him. I didn't imagine that I'd have to protect other people from him! He never _told_ me, I swear he never told me!"

Apprehension seized me. What could she be talking about? What had she _done?_ Harboured a dangerous criminal, a dark wizard, without alerting the proper authorities. And what had _he_ done, this mysterious brother? "Flora," I said, softly. "You have to tell me what this is about. What do you mean? What did he never tell you?"

Her voice shook, but she got the words out well enough. "It's – I didn't want to take him in, Theodore, believe me! I didn't want to help him. But he's my _brother!_ The bonds of blood…" She trailed off at this point and averted her eyes. Perhaps she had only just remembered that, although purebloods claimed to value family above all else, I had once had a reward price placed on my head by my own father. I was hardly the person most likely to understand _the bonds of blood._ She swallowed, and then pressed on, "Theo, he ran away from them. And _they made him a werewolf_."

"What?" Whatever I'd been expecting, it hadn't been this. Viper could bestow lycanthropy at will? But no – that was too complicated. "You mean that they've got a werewolf on their side?" I asked, knowing that that must be the answer. I remembered Fenrir, my father's _associate_ , from the Second War – I wasn't likely to forget him in a hurry. Maybe all Dark Lords followed the same paths and took the same precautions. "Did he try to run on a full moon night?" I thought out loud as Flora trembled with suppressed emotion. "Or did they somehow catch him afterwards and infect him?"

Flora let out a sob. "I don't know!" she cried. "All I know is that he... he's a werewolf. There wasn't any trouble on the last moon. There won't be any trouble tonight. He's not stupid – he's made sure he can't get to anyone. But he didn't warn me, and I went down to see him tonight." She shivered. "I came face to face with a werewolf, Theodore. He was behind bars, but I still saw him – my brother – mad. I want to find who did this to him. I want to find that person very badly indeed." Her urgency was almost frightening. "How they did it is the least of my concerns. I only care that they _did_."  I was surprised by how vicious she sounded.

I was not, as a rule, a particularly emotional person, but at this moment a horrible thought dawned in my mind. "It will be your concern," I growled. "If this means what I think it means, it's everyone's concern. When did your brother first come to see you?"

She looked at me, as if she didn't understand why I was so interested. "About a month and a half ago," she replied, eventually.

"Not a full moon night," I muttered, darkly. "This means – oh, don't you _know_ what this means?" I asked, suddenly angry at her stupidity, her ignorance, her foolish emotional outbursts. I was on edge, fear eating through my veins, and all she could do was _cry_. She shook her head, seemingly dazed. "I don't think they have a werewolf on their side," I said, slowly. She frowned at me. I carried on, ignoring her perplexity. "No, nothing as simple or as predictable as a werewolf." My mind was running back through all of the texts on lycanthropy that I'd ever read – one in particular. "What they have – or what I _fear_ they might have – is a worg."


	12. The Devil's Advocate

She blinked at me, and I realised that my terrible revelation hadn't affected her as it had me.  The word _worg_ didn't scare her.  She didn't even understand it.  "What does that mean?"  Though I had never really liked her much, I had also never really _disliked_ her - until now, when she had shown such crushing ignorance of a potentially lethal enemy.

"What does it mean?" I echoed, sarcastically, and she flushed. I had to restrain myself. Whatever I was, however dire I thought the situation was, I was not Snape – I did not need to make others feel stupid in order to make myself feel better. "Sorry." I offered the apology somewhat sheepishly. "I'm just – the thought scares me so much that I didn't imagine that anyone wouldn't understand. The worg is supposedly a mythical beast. Muggles don't associate worgs with werewolves – they think that they're wolf-shaped demons.

"That might not be far from the truth, all things considered - but in terms of pure fact, a worg is a werewolf whose wolf side has taken over." Flora shivered. It seemed that she'd realised the seriousness of the situation. "You might say that a worg is a werewolf who has forgotten what it is to be human. They spend most of their time as wolves, but they've got human cunning and near-human intelligence. They've still got the werewolf's malevolence – they'll attack and bite people if they can. And their bites are infectious throughout the lunar cycle."

I buried my head in my hands for a moment. Then I raised it again and stared straight into the Arithmancy teacher's eyes. "I have travelled the globe finding dark magic and destroying it," I said, my voice quavering slightly. "I have fought creatures and broken curses so vicious most people wouldn't imagine that they exist. I've heard stories from survivors of all sorts of magical holocausts. But I've never met a worg. I've never met anyone who's met a worg. Werewolves are people, mostly. They don't normally _do_ this sort of thing. To become a worg is to forsake your humanity, and most lycanthropes cling to that as if it were a lifebelt. But, you see, every now and again, a very dark wizard becomes a werewolf. And that's where worgs come from. They're the reason why the Ministry's so scared of werewolves."

She stared at me. "But what can we _do_ , then?"

Fortunately, I had an idea. It had dawned on me the moment I had said _Ministry_ and _werewolves_ in the same sentence. "There's only one thing we can do."  I felt suddenly more confident.  "We have to call in the Devil's Advocate." Seeing her puzzled look, I clarified. "The Advocate is _the_ Ministry werewolf. He's a bit like the whole country's alpha wolf. All of the Light werewolves and most of the Dark fall under his jurisdiction. If there's a worg out there, probably the only person who can deal with it is the Advocate. As far as I recall, he can change into wolf-form at will, without losing hold of his human mind any more than a regular Animagus does."

"So we have to call him now!" Flora insisted. Her urgency was rather contagious, but my common sense asserted itself.

"It won't do any good," I said. "If your brother's not endangering anyone, he might as well stay as he is for now. We'll call the Advocate in the morning, and he ought to come out sometime this evening to have a look at your brother." She glared at me. I sighed. "Flora, the Advocate is still only a werewolf. At the moment, he's drugged up to the nines with Wolfsbane. It stands to reason that you can't call out the Advocate at the full moon." She sat back in her chair, nodding and looking a little ashamed of her outburst. "But I promise I'll call him in the morning. He might want to talk to you. He'll certainly want to grill me when he gets here." I smiled lopsidedly. "If I'm wrong, they'll probably slap an _alarm and despondency_ charge on me before you can blink."

She put her head on one side, looking at me rather shrewdly.  "But you still hope that you _are_ wrong, don't you?"

I looked up and met her tear-filled, perceptive eyes. Then I nodded. "Of course I am," I said. "Because the alternative doesn't really bear thinking about."

* * *

Golden yellow-brown eyes looked at me steadily as I spoke, and it took all of my presence of mind not to falter under that unsettlingly still gaze. I managed to reach the end of my explanation – what I had been told by Flora, the deductions I had made from her information, the possibility that there was a worg in Viper's employ – without making a fool of myself. And still the Advocate sat and looked at me, sipping gently at a mug of tea, not saying a word. He looked like hell, but then it was the day after the full moon, and werewolves, even alphas, seldom look their best at such a time.

Eventually, I lost patience with him and snapped, "Well?" A moment later I regretted the outburst, remembering that this man who sat opposite me, looking frail and a little ill, was in fact a powerful predator who could like as not rip my throat out as easily as breathing. The fact that he probably wouldn't didn't make him any less frightening. The Advocate, the alpha wolf, stirred himself and looked at me, a kindly smile creeping over his haggard face.

"You will show me this young man," he said, slowly, and the words were obviously an _order_ , not a suggestion. "The taint of the worg will be obvious to anyone who knows what to look for." He looked at me speculatively, his head cocked to one side. "It is strange that you thought about worgs," he remarked. "Most human students of the Dark Arts write them off as a Muggle myth – the demon wolf. But you knew."  He paused.  "Perhaps you have been to Syria. They had problems with worgs there some fifty years ago. Before your time, and mine, too, if you can believe that."

I smiled, thinly.  "I was once in Syria, yes.  Years ago, now.  Just after I left Britain for the first time, actually."  More like fled the country, hiding from Rumour and her vicious tongues.  "I heard the tales of worgs there.  I read the books written on the attacks fifty years ago. But I do know that it was before your time," I added, my smile becoming more natural. "You can't be more than sixty-five."

He laughed. "Wolves age differently to humans," he said. "We look older than our years for some time, and then we look about sixty until the day we drop dead."

I shook my head. "But I knew you, once," I said, inwardly amused by the Advocate's perplexity. "You held my position when I was in third year."

"Did I, now?" Remus Lupin – for it was he; I had recognised the Advocate the second he had entered the room – seemed to look at me in a completely different light now. "Yes. That was almost thirty years ago. I didn't imagine – _you_ look younger than your years. But I remember you now. You were one of our traitors, weren't you? The Order spoke highly of you – well, by that I mean that Harry spoke highly of you. Nott and Malfoy. I can't believe I'd forgotten your auspicious past." He gave a wry smile. "I suppose that you're used to having people overlook your involvement in the war.  No one likes to be reminded that they might owe their safety to a couple of Slytherin turncoats."

The way he said _traitors_ and _turncoats_ was definitely ironic; I didn't think that he intended them as insults. "I don't want or need people to sing my praises," I said, shortly. "My involvement got me a steady job, which is more than I'd hoped for, to be perfectly honest."  I hadn't hoped for, much less expected, anything at all.  "I see that your input got you one as well. Or was that the Ministry reshuffle?"

Lupin shrugged. "Maybe they decided they needed more input from werewolves," he said. "Or maybe they were afraid of an uprising. _Taxation without representation is tyranny_ , as they say." He gave a short bark of laughter, then pushed out of his chair, swinging himself upright.  "Well, pleasant as it is to renew old acquaintance, we should go. There's a big bad wolf to be seen to, and the possibility that there might be an even bigger and worse wolf behind it all." We walked together down to the room in which Flora was being interrogated by Aurors. Terry was not among them, but Draco was, waving his "Reserve" status like a banner. He grinned at me when I entered. I wondered why he had wanted to be involved, but then Draco had always had his insatiable curiosity.

The minute Lupin cleared his throat, silence prevailed. "Alright," he said. "Time to see this cave, I think. If there's a worg, or even a rogue werewolf, we've got to get to the bottom of it. And we can only do that if we go to this cave and interview this young man." His eyes flicked lazily to Flora. "You must show me where he is hidden," he ordered. "If all is well and no one has been injured by your actions – or inactions, as is probably closer to the truth – you will go free, and there will be no charges brought against you for harbouring a dangerous fugitive." His eyes implied that the consequences would otherwise be dire. She nodded once, shuddering slightly under that wolfish gaze.

The small party – Lupin, Flora, two Aurors, Draco and I – made its way out of the school and towards the edge of Hogwarts' grounds. It was dark already and most of the students were safe in their common rooms. The few who were not eyed the procession with interest, but Draco's glare quickly made them far more interested in their own business than in ours. We passed the lake and headed for the gates, and as we did so, my mind crept back to that day at the beginning of term. _This_ was what Flora had been up to when I'd seen her sneaking away. She'd been visiting her brother. The incident had almost entirely slipped my mind, and I cursed myself for this carelessness. I could've resolved this mystery far sooner if only I'd thought to ask.

Still, there was no use crying over spilt milk, and so I blocked any thoughts of regret from my mind as we approached the cave. We had not got within twenty yards of the opening in the rock, however, when Lupin stopped abruptly and sniffed at the air. The werewolf's nose evidently picked up on something that a mere human's could not, something that he didn't like at all, because in the blink of an eye he had transformed. In but a few large bounds, he had reached the cave and darted inside. The Aurors exchanged looks, but they were the wolf squad, and they knew what they were doing, which was more than could be said for Draco and me.

We followed cautiously, and as we rounded the corner into the cave, the wolf that was Lupin let out a heart-rending howl. Everyone stopped dead. I shook my head and stepped forwards toward the sound. Draco caught my arm and tried to pull me away, but I tugged away from him and headed towards Lupin. At the back of the cave stood a silver beast, larger than any natural wolf. The part of my mind that was pure Defence professor noted idly the defining features of a werewolf – the snout, the teeth, the ears, and the tail. The rest of my mind was screaming with horror at the sight that faced me.

I had seen many people murdered. I had killed some of them myself. But I had only ever before seen one man who had been killed by a werewolf. It was not like normal murder. A wolf-gnawed body never looks at peace. It is never possible to persuade oneself that the victim might just as easily have been asleep. A werewolf's victim looks ravaged, looks destroyed, looks _violated_ by the creature that stole away their life. And to see such a mangled body is doubly terrible, because it reminds the observer that there is something above us in the food chain that we – arrogant animals though we are – have our predators too.

I heard a choked sob just behind me and turned to see Flora standing there. "Your brother?"  Her only response was to nod - and then, quite suddenly, she burst into tears, crying helplessly into her hands. I turned back to look at the body and at Lupin, who was sniffing the remains with his ears pricked and his tail held high. The two Aurors advanced and looked rather green at the sight that awaited them, although they _must_ have seen more of the wolf-slain than I had. I raised an eyebrow at the nearest one and said, "It looks like they already got to him, doesn't it?"

There was a faint _pop_ and then Remus Lupin stood in human form before us, rather fastidious disgust written all over his features. "They did."  He pressed his lips together tightly.  "And you were right, Professor Nott. None of us wanted to believe it, but a werewolf's nose never lies." He tapped that organ with a long index finger. "This murder was committed shortly after the man before us regained his human form, at about six o'clock this morning. Since a _normal_ werewolf would've transformed back by then, it could only have been a worg. Or an alpha, but I am the only one, and my clean unbroken teeth vouch for the fact that I didn't do this." He wiped a hand across his sweating forehead. "And the body stinks of worg," he added, more quietly.

One of the Aurors looked at me with something approaching respect. "So, you know your stuff," he said, as if he had doubted me before. 'You're not just scaremongering.  We'd thought it was a hoax. You just _don't get_ worgs in England."

Lupin snorted, and owing to his recent transformation there was still a little of the wolf in the sound. "It seems that we do now."  His words were a grim pronouncement.  "Whatever we might like to think, there is a worg on the loose. We need an alert put out." Seeing that his underlings remained immobile, he cleared his throat. " _Right now_ ," he growled, a low rumbling sound that startled the two Aurors into frantic action. "And we'll need a regular Auror or two to deal with this mess," he called after them, waving a hand to cover the half-eaten human remains. There was a sharp crack from the direction of the cave's entrance.  Lupin seemed surprised. "I didn't expect anyone _this_ quickly, Boot."

I turned to see Terry standing there, his eyes wild and his hair wilder. "No time, Lupin," he snapped. "Malfoy, Nott, I'm ordering you as your superior officer to come with me right now. There's been a murder in Muggle London. A wizard murder. We suspect it might not link up to the Viper affair, but there's no point in hanging around. If our favourite snake does have something to do with it, we might as well have a squad working on any leads we can find now rather than later."

Draco smirked. "Have a hard time finding us?" he asked, a hint of childish amusement in the tone.

Terry shrugged. "Not really," he said. "Took all of ten minutes. McGonagall told me where you'd gone."

Draco looked put out by this, but didn't say anything. I only asked, "Where are we going?"

The Auror put one hand on my arm and the other on Draco's. Then he smiled, and said, "Just follow my lead." And then he vanished with a sharp crack, dragging both of us with him through the silent space of Apparition.

When we reappeared, a street resolved itself in front of us. This was the heart of Muggle London. But it was also a place that was familiar to me. "Do you realise how close we are to Hermione's flat?" I asked Terry, quietly.

He nodded, grimly. "Yeah, a couple of the boys ferreted that information out for me already," he replied. "That's why we're not sure if it's a Viper-related case or just – well, just plain murder. Given the people involved, I'm actually hoping for this to be Viper's handiwork. I don't want to believe that a woman I've always admired could do this sort of thing, even to someone she's got no reason to like and plenty of reasons to dislike. But what I want to be true has no bearing on reality."  He grimaced.  "I didn't want there to be a worg on the loose, but judging by Remus' expression, I suppose that there isn't any doubt in the matter."

"Not any more, there isn't," Draco cut in. From his expression I could tell that the idea of a worg frightened him just as much as it frightened me. "Not with Lupin's infallible nose on the case. He's certain – he sent his people to alert the Ministry. No doubt about it now – Viper's not playing games. We're looking at a second Voldemort here, and that's if we're _lucky_." I had seldom seen Draco look as despairing as he did at that moment. It was the look that had graced his face when we had heard of Blaise's suicide – the look he had worn when he attended his father's trial.

Terry rolled his eyes. "You always were a little ray of sunshine, weren't you, Malfoy?" he said, trying and failing to make the situation seem a little less dark.

We walked out of the alleyway we had appeared in and rounded the corner. There was a large number of Muggle police crowded around a car. I felt an unpleasant twinge when I looked at the vehicle. There was no way I was getting in one of _those_ in the near future. Evidently something had happened to the car. Maybe that was where the body was. I shivered. I didn't want to see another body, not so soon after the first. And it was likely to be gruesome. If this had been straightforward magical murder, a simple case of _Avada Kedavra_ , the police would not be here. This was murder most foul, Muggle style.

Terry stepped over to the gaggle of uniformed police and held up a card to them. They fell away, muttering about _serial killers_ and _famous detectives_. He waved a hand at us. "D.S. Nott, D.C. Malfoy – they're with me. Let them through." The Muggles backed away and allowed Draco and me to advance. I wondered, idly, if Draco was aware of the subtle insult in Terry's introduction. If he was, he gave no sign of it. He looked more as though he were bracing himself for the horrible sight he knew awaited him.

We looked into the car. Someone was taking pictures. I almost snapped at him to stop, but then I remembered that this was normal procedure in a murder case. The photographs were evidence, not an intrusion. Still, I didn't like it. My eyes flicked over the body of the murdered man, instantly arrested by the obvious yet chilling fact that his throat had been slashed brutally with a sharp knife. The blood vessels in the neck had been opened and their contents had sprayed all over the insides of the car. I felt a little queasy at the sight.

I felt even worse when Draco half-whispered, "Well, well, it seems like the Weasel finally got his." He didn't sound particularly pleased – one look at him confirmed that he felt as sick as I did. I looked back at the body. Draco had not mistaken his arch-enemy in the darkness and the blood. It was Ron Weasley who lay in the Muggle car, his neck tilted back at an unnatural angle, his eyes open and staring, and his blood covering the upholstery. I turned my face away. I had seen _too many_ classmates die. I was only forty. The people I had gone to school with should all still be alive. Smith's words drifted through my mind: _I've been killing our year, have you noticed?_ I clenched my fists. Was Hermione meant to take the blame for this?

No sooner had I thought of her than I heard her voice drifting over the mumble of voices from the police and the sound of Draco gagging into his handkerchief. "Exactly what is going on here?"  Her strident voice cut through the horror of the situation. Everything always became more manageable, more prosaic, when Hermione was around. Then she saw the three figures bent over the body and shoved her way through all of the crime scene paraphernalia to stand, hands on hips, in front of the three of us. She looked as if she might yell at us, but then her eyes went past me and took in the body in her car. She let out a small scream. Then she took a long breath, and said, "What the _fuck_ is my ex-husband's body doing in _my_ car?"


	13. Bittersweet Symphony

There was a moment of frozen silence as everyone present tried to cope with her sudden appearance. Then Draco murmured, "Holy hell, did _Hermione_ just swear?"

Terry glared at him, apparently not appreciating his flippancy.  I wondered how he could manage it, given the presence of the gruesome throat-slashed body; it was probably some sort of self-defence mechanism, a way to shut out the horror of the situation by pretending for a moment that it didn't exist.  Hermione didn't seem amused.  She was angry - perhaps that someone had left a dead body in her car, or perhaps that Draco, Terry and I had turned up practically on her doorstep - but she was also afraid.  That wasn't surprising, either; she probably knew that she would come under suspicion here.  I didn't think she'd done it – I didn't think she _could've_ done something like this – but the fact was that, in the objective eyes of the law, it looked bad for her.

"That's a question we'd quite like your help in answering." Terry ignored Draco's whispered query in favour of addressing Hermione's outburst.  "Detective Superintendent Boot," he added, by way of introduction. Hermione seemed inclined to dispute this fact, but Terry leant forwards and said, very quietly, "I don't know you. You don't know me." Slowly, her face twisted with nausea and reluctance, she nodded.  In a more normal voice, Terry continued, "You say that this is your car?"

Hermione grimaced. "Yes, _Superintendent_." She all but sneered the word. "This is my car. And that's my ex-husband. Ron Weasley." Now she lowered her voice. "Shouldn't you get the Muggles out of here?" she asked. "You know full well that Ron's not going to be on any of their records. The last thing we need is a mysterious man who doesn't really exist popping up on the front pages of all the newspapers. I'll never get any peace." She looked very nervous all of a sudden. "I know you'll want to ask me questions," she said in a louder voice. "I would, if I were you. But I didn't kill him."

Terry nodded, but it was more of an acknowledgement of her words than a sign that he believed her.  I knew that he'd probably like to believe her - but I also knew that, from an investigator's point of view, Hermione was the obvious choice for the murderer.  And it usually paid to suspect the obvious before spinning any more far-fetched stories.  I, however, _did_ believe her, because I was a Slytherin and a liar, and as such I usually had a very good idea when someone was lying.  Especially someone I knew. And Hermione wasn't, as far as I could tell. No, I believed firmly that this was the work of Viper and Smith. If it hadn't been the dread Hufflepuff who'd struck the death blow, I imagined it had at least been done on his orders.

Hermione put her hands on her hips and glared. "You know."  Her voice was a growl.  "You must know full well that I didn't do this. I had no earthly reason to kill Ron that I haven't had for the last five years. And I'm not stupid, either. Why, assuming that I wanted to kill someone, would I do it just around the corner from my own flat? Why would I put the body in my own car? And why – given that I possess _eyes_ – why would I commit a murder under the watchful eyes of a security camera?" She gestured at the small black box affixed to the wall of a nearby building. "There's your evidence, superintendent," she said, acidly. "I hope you find the person who did this, but I can tell you that you won't get closer to the truth by interrogating _me_."  There was a horrible light of betrayal in her eyes as they rested upon Draco and me.

Terry gestured to one of the uniformed police, telling him to get hold of the footage from the camera _asap_ , whatever that meant. And then he looked at Hermione and said, quietly, "It's probably Viper's doing. But I'm going to pull you in for questioning simply because if I don't it'll look suspicious. I won't arrest you. You aren't under caution. Just come along with me and we'll wait for the photographic evidence to develop." The way Hermione's lip curled suggested to me that Terry had attempted to make a joke that she hadn't found funny. I exchanged a look with Draco, who shrugged, as clueless as I was.

I turned away from the others and leant forwards to have a closer look at the car and the body. The brutality of it frightened me. _Whoever did this didn't need to use a spell_ , I thought. The fact that there was such power in the world that was not grounded in magic made me uneasy. I knew that it shouldn't, but the fact remained that it _did_. I was scared of Muggles. I didn't feel the need to trample them beneath my feet, as my father and Draco's father had done. I couldn't feel the same easy contempt towards them that Draco did. I couldn't see them as soft, harmless curiosities as Arthur Weasley had always done.

No – they were _people_ , the same as us. But being human meant that they must have their angels and their devils. They were no more or less likely to produce monsters like Viper than we were. But the fact remained that I was scared, because death at the hands of a Muggle was violent, vicious and _prolonged_. No whispered words, no flashes of coloured light – I shuddered at the remembrance of my skull being staved in by a heavy club. It was one thing to die, but it was quite another to die slowly, to die screaming, to die _soaked in your own blood_. I couldn't hate Muggles for their primitive brutality, but equally I couldn't stand to see anyone ripped apart in such a fashion. It was like the werewolves all over again. The corpse was not at peace, could never be at peace – not with that ravaged throat.

I tore my eyes away from the slumped body and looked about the car. A slow flashing green light caught my attention. The small screen was caked in darkening, congealing blood – I swallowed quickly at this reminder that someone I had once known had _bled to death_ here – but the light behind it was still discernable in patches. I waved a hand at it, hoping to get rid of the glow. Nothing happened. There was some sort of button there. I prodded it with my wand and instantly the car and surrounding street was filled with noise. I gave a surprised yelp and jerked away, hitting my head on the top of the car doorframe.

Terry glared at me. "Nott, what do you think you're doing?" he snapped. Then he stopped and listened to what I now realised was music. Loud, almost-tuneless Muggle music, but music just the same. He smirked. "Do you think that the killer was trying to tell us something?" he asked, after a moment. I couldn't make out any words in the noise yet, but my Muggleborn friend obviously knew the song. This just served as yet another reminder of what Terry was. He was more frightening, in some ways, than a Muggle. He had all of their technologies at his disposal, as well as a wizard's power.

I listened closely and made out the lyrics with a small effort. The words pounded across the small space between the – er, stereo system? – and my ears. " _…you're a slave to money then you die."_ Chillingly appropriate, I thought, wincing. Behind me, I heard a sharp intake of breath – probably Draco. Another snatch of coherent words hit me: _"_ _t_ _he places where all the veins meet yeah"._ And this time I winced. What with the horrors I had seen tonight, the last thing I wanted to think about was blood. Or veins. Or _anything_ like that. But it was hard to escape from, given that the interior of the car was covered in blood splatter. I pressed the button again and the music cut out suddenly, leaving nothing but the flashing light and silence.

I straightened out and looked at Terry, who shrugged and said, "Bittersweet Symphony," as if that was any sort of explanation at all. I frowned at him. "It's the name of the song, Mr. Ignorant," he breathed, his mouth inches from my ear. I would have pushed him away, except that I was pretty sure that junior detectives didn't push their superior officers around. And I couldn't ruin my cover story – and Terry's, too – over something so trivial. Fortunately, he backed up of his own accord and said, "Ironic that that CD should be in the player." He was almost as subtle as any Slytherin. I could see what he was doing. Possibly Hermione could too.

She glared at him, and said, "That was in there when I drove home earlier today. I _like_ that album. You're reading too much into things, superintendent." And though she kept her voice and words polite, and always accorded Terry his proper rank, she somehow managed to sound insolent. It had to be a gift. She'd always been able to make people feel three inches tall without even trying. The amount of times I had listened to Draco complaining about her at school – if I hadn't known that his fascination lay squarely with Harry, I might've suspected him of having _feelings_ for 'the curly-haired Mudblood'.

"Maybe," Terry said, unfazed by any implied insults. "Maybe not." He turned away. "We'll leave the rest to this lot," he said to me. "Not a hell of a lot we can do here. C.O.D. was the slash wound to the throat. Either he bled out or he drowned in his own blood. Dead about three, four hours. No pathologist'll be able to tell us more than that until the P.M. anyway." I nodded along with this, although I barely understood any of it. _C.O.D_ I deciphered as "cause of death", but what was a pathologist? Or for that matter, a P.M.? From the casual way he said it, I assumed that any detective would understand, so I didn't question. I was good at playing a part. It came almost as second nature to me now.

Hermione took one last look at the body and winced. I could see pain in her eyes. Pain, bewilderment and grief. _She loved him once_ , I remembered, looking at the devastation there. She had loved Ronald Weasley enough to marry him, once upon a time. And, even given all of the things that had happened in between, who was I to say that she didn't love him still? My eyes flicked over the bloodless corpse. _Death is cruel_ , I thought. And then: _you don't realise how much you loved someone until you've lost them forever_.

* * *

It was past midnight when we returned to Hogwarts. Terry went first, his face set in grim determination. We had all seen the pictures from the Muggle security camera. We all knew what we were dealing with. We were all _ready_. We knew the truth, though when we had first seen it, Draco had leapt up, shouting: _"But it can't be!"_ In truth, I had shared his disbelief. Terry had looked very much as if he would like to give himself a good kicking. _"One of the Macmillans,"_ he had sighed.  _"Yo_ _u see, I knew it. All along, I knew it."_ And I had looked at him and said, _"_ _It just seemed too easy. Too obvious. That's why we didn't see it."_

And it was too obvious. It was too easy. But it was truth. It was incontrovertible _fact_. I'd seen the footage. Terry had said that it hadn't been tampered with. We knew who the culprit was. So why did I feel as if we were doing what we had been _meant_ to do? Why did I feel that this was only a distraction from the truth? It was _too easy_ , damn it, _too easy_ , and we were being led up the garden path like children. Or were we? It seemed too good to be true, and yet it was true. And I couldn't deny Terry his success – his arrest – simply because I felt uneasy about the so-called "mistake" that had handed us our quarry on a silver platter.

But the fact remained that I wanted to.

The doors of the infirmary opened before we reached them, but there was no mystery, no magic behind that – Sonia had heard us coming and had come to see what we wanted. Her eyes widened slightly to see us approach. Terry held a finger to his lips, willing her to keep silent with his eyes, and she nodded, fearfully. I thought, looking at the flicker of fear that just showed as she dipped her head, that she knew what we had come for. _Yes_ , part of me thought, treacherously. _It is that obvious_. She backed away as we reached the doorway, allowing us entry.

The Macmillans were still in the hospital wing. Little Algy slept, blissfully ignorant, looking a little like a rather chubby angel with his blankets tucked up to his chin. _I am sorry, little one_ , I thought, sadly. The fact that I _had_ to do what I was about to do, the fact that I was bound to this duty by law and by my own honour, did not make it any easier. I looked beyond the child and saw Ginny, her brown eyes flickering with fear, doubt and horror. Did she know what we had come to do? Had she guessed? Ernie stood up when he saw us. He'd been half asleep in an armchair when the door had opened, but now he was alert. He knew the game was up.

And so did Charity. Green eyes – the colour of life, the colour of death, the colour of jealousy – glowed vindictively as we approached. She looked straight at me, and her eyes asked a question. I inclined my head slightly, not enough to betray our understanding to anyone else, but enough that she understood. She nodded, once, and took a sharp pace away from her step-father, surprising both him and her mother with the sudden movement.

It had to be spite that drove her as she announced, "Tonight your misdeeds have finally caught you, _father dear_."  Sarcasm fairly dripped from her voice.

Ernie Macmillan backed away from her and from us. "I don't know what you mean!" he said, voice quavering. His eyes told a different story. They were moving around incessantly, searching for an escape route where there was – could be – none. His decision to come to Hogwarts had finished him, in the end. As Hermione had told everyone so many times – _you can't Apparate on Hogwarts grounds_. Ernie was cornered. There was no way out for him. "I haven't done anything! Terry knows that, don't you?" He wasn't foolish enough to appeal to the bonds of old friendship. None of us had ever been his friends, and he knew it.

Terry looked grave. "Ernie Macmillan," he said, slowly, in a strangely sing-song voice. "I'm here to arrest you for the murder of one Ronald Weasley." There was a sharp intake of breath. Ginny looked as if she had been slapped in the face. She had gone white, as pale as a ghost. She seized her husband's arm with a grip that looked painful and hissed:

"Tell me you didn't, Ernie. Please, tell me you didn't!"

I felt sorry for her at that moment. If I was as bad as all Slytherins are cracked up to be, I would have gloated at that moment. I might have sung out for the world to hear that _I_ would never have murdered her brother, not for all the galleons in Gringott's. I might have laughed at her for marrying such a spineless excuse for a wizard. I might have mocked her gullibility, for believing in this murderer when he fed her his lies. But I did none of those things. I watched her grief, terrible in its intensity, and refused to try to make it worse.

"Ginny, I swear it, I swear it – I would never betray you!"

Some indefinable emotion flickered and died in Ginny's eyes. "Did you, Ernie?" she asked, voice perfectly level. "I can't stand hearing your lies any more! I can't!" Macmillan just looked at the ground. I hated him at that moment. _Murderer_ , I thought, viciously. _You don't deserve her. You never deserved her, you murdering, lying traitor._ Looking straight at her husband, Ginny said, very quietly, "It's true, isn't it? You killed him. You've been in league with Smith and this bloody Viper all along, haven't you? I know it. I know it! Don't think you can lie to me anymore, Ernie, because you _can't_."

Terry stepped forwards. "Are you going to come quietly, Macmillan?" he asked, challengingly. Ernie only looked at him, silent and slack-jawed, and then gave a weak nod.  There was no fight left in him. Just to be sure, the Auror put his hand on the prisoner's arm and marched him towards the door. He turned back to look at Draco and me. "Malfoy, you come with me. Nott, stay here and sort out this mess." He looked straight at me at this point and nodded at Ginny, the sentiment quite clear.  _See if you can get anything more out of his wife_.  I shook my head, tried to protest without words - the last thing I wanted was to be left alone with her at such a sensitive time - but he simply raised an eyebrow and left with Draco. I couldn't argue. Terry was in charge.

I sat down on the edge of one of the beds. Ginny glared at me. I gathered up what courage I possessed, and said, "Terry wants me to ask you about your husband's movements recently. We're looking for clues as to what he could have been up to in the last few weeks."

No sooner had I finished than Ginny spat, "You just want to say _I told you so_ , don't you, Theodore? Say "oh, look, you should've married me; at least I didn't turn out to be a traitor". I'd rather have been questioned by _Draco_ than by you, but I suppose we have to make the best of a bad job, don't we?" She sat down heavily and folded her arms. Her hostile glare was unnerving. I'd never seen this side of Ginny before. I didn't know why she was taking this out on me. It wasn't fair, especially since I _hadn't_ even tried to gloat. And would she rather that her brother's murderer hadn't been caught, to spare her peace of mind?

"Ginny," I said, warningly. "You can either talk to me here and now, or we can take you to the Ministry for questioning." She looked angry that I had threatened her thus, but she had apparently forgotten my position of authority, which was no fault of mine. "I need to find out how long Ernie has been working for Viper. We need to know how much he could potentially have told his master. It's important, Ginny. My feelings have got nothing to do with this, and neither have yours."

She shrugged. "He's a _traitor_ ," she breathed. "I'm still trying to get my head around it. He's a traitor. My husband. Harry – never really liked him, perhaps, but he thought Ernie had integrity. Thought that he was honest, and noble, and decent. But we were both wrong. All an act. It was all an act." She looked at me, her wide eyes gentle now. "I didn't know he was doing this, Theodore. I can't help you. I only thought he was working too hard. I was cursing his department at the Ministry for making him work like a house-elf, and it turns out that all along he was _plotting_ against us all. Plotting to kill my brother!"

There was something – a catch in her voice, perhaps, or a glint in her eye – that made me sure that I wasn't hearing the whole truth. "You really had no idea?" I hated myself for doubting her so openly, but it had to be done. "You honestly had no idea that your husband was working for the enemy?" She looked outraged. I explained, "Look, I'm sure that if you had definite knowledge you'd have told us. But there must have been signs. Maybe you just didn't see them."

'Accusing me of being wilfully blind, Theodore?' she asked, hurt in her expression. " _I didn't know_. How many times do I have to tell you that? I didn't know he was going to kill my brother. I didn't know that he was working against us. I didn't know that he was in league with Viper." She glowered for a minute, and then went on, "And don't sit there and _pity_ me like that. You're thinking – I know you're thinking – that I'd have been better off with you. You don't need to say it. _Harry wouldn't have minded you so much_. He thought the world of you. Made me laugh, it did; he liked you and trusted you, and all the time you'd have stolen his wife from under his nose if I'd once showed willing!"

I was incensed. I didn't remember ever being angry with Ginny before but this – this was _too much_. "I never would!" I protested. 'I wouldn't lay a finger on another man's wife, much less Harry's. I won't deny that I loved you, but I wouldn't have betrayed his trust like that."

"What do you think you're doing now?"  She had entirely forgotten that, for the moment at least, I was an Auror, and could have her arrested if I wished. "What do you think you're doing now with his daughter?" Charity looked up in alarm. "Didn't you think I _knew_ , Theodore? Harry would've killed you for touching her, and you know it." She curled her lip at me, and she had never been further from the girl I had fallen in love with than she was now. "You're _pathetic_ , Theodore. You couldn't have me; you could never have me. So you get my husband arrested and you sleep with _my daughter_. Do you pretend she's me? Do you?" She rounded on her daughter. "You'll see. He's _using_ you."

She jumped up and ran out of the infirmary. Sonia frowned after her, disapproval showing in every line of the nurse's face. Charity looked pale and frightened. I stepped closer to her, praying to every god I had ever heard of that she wouldn't run away from me. Did she believe her mother? I wondered. Another, insidious voice in my head asked: _was Ginny so wrong? Isn't she a substitute for what you can never have?_

But then the green eyes looked at me, and I saw in them something I hadn't seen in years, not since Harry's closed forever.  Charity Potter smiled bravely.  "She's just upset."  She was trying to sound confident, but her voice wavered slightly.  "She's just angry with Ernie and she's taking it out on you."  She looked deep into my eyes, and must have been satisfied with what she saw there, because she didn't turn away.  "It wasn't true, was it? What she said. I know how you feel about her. But I thought – I thought that you what you felt about me was different. Separate. I'm not a substitute. Am I?"

"No."  There was no doubt in my mind now.  Charity was not and would never be just a subsitute for Ginny.  She was too much her father's daughter for that, and I loved her for it. "You're not a substitute. You never were. And don't you worry about your mother," I added. "She'll be alright. In a while she'll stop being angry and she'll be sorry that she said all of those things. She'll come back and apologise."

Charity laughed briefly, but her green eyes still looked haunted. Her Uncle Ron was dead, I remembered. How could I have forgotten him so easily?  With obviously feigned flippancy, she said, "You want to bet?"

I smiled back at her. "I know her," I said. "I know her well. Ten galleons say she apologises before the night is through."

My girl dropped a kiss on my cheek before smiling up at me with a familiarly impish spark in her wide eyes. "Ten galleons?"  There was a smirk tugging at her lips.  "Done."


	14. Death of a Legend

Visiting hours at St. Mungo's were over, but being a Reserve Auror conferred certain perks, not least of which was the ability to access any area of the hospital.  And so I prowled through the corridors, ignoring anyone who looked as though they might question my right to be there, heading purposefully in one direction for all that it looked as if I was merely making the rounds. A short tour of the fourth floor – the Incurable section, as some more callous people called it – brought me straight to my object. The Potter Memorial Ward.

Wondering briefly how Charity coped, working in a place that so ostentatiously bore her name, I put my head round the door. I didn't understand this place at all. It _ought_ to have been a horrible, hopeless place, resonating with death, indignity and decay. But it wasn't. It wasn't exactly _cheerful_ , but it was pleasant. The healers had brisk, positive manners and the décor seemed simply to emphasise the wonders of being alive. Maybe that should have been depressing for the terminal cases within the ward, but Charity had said that for the most part it wasn't. _Everything seems much more beautiful when you know you're going to die_ , was how she'd put it. I thought about her father, how his initial bitterness had given way to quiet, ironic acceptance, and I couldn't bring myself to disagree.

Across the ward, a certain red-haired girl was watching me closely. "I don't remember inviting you, Theo," she said, though she didn't exactly look unhappy to see me; a smile crept across her face as if she were incapable of stopping it.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I mock-apologised. "I didn't realise it was a private party." She gave me a stern, no-nonsense look normally reserved by nursemaids for their charges, and I looked suitably meek under the force of it. "I thought you'd be finished by the time I arrived," I explained.  "When you didn't come down after a few minutes, they let me come up here and see you. I went via some of the minor Spell Damage wards. Looking at some of the casualties from Monday's attack." For earlier in the week, Viper's followers – and they had no name, not like the Death Eaters, and no discernable mark, either – had struck again.

Charity's face became grim. "Yeah, I heard about that, of course." She waved me over and I crossed the ward, noticing that I was being watched closely by most of the occupants of the beds. But then, I supposed, they did not have very much by way of entertainment. When I was closer to her, she asked, more quietly, "How's mum holding up?" Her eyes asked more than the simple question. She had moved away from Hogwarts since the revelation of her step-father's treachery. Her mother's alternating anger and denial had worn her nerves very thin, and now she was staying with a friend in London. I had been disappointed, but I hadn't stopped her.

"A little better, I think." It was mostly true. Minerva had started to mutter about finding somewhere else for Ginny and Algy to go, but the truth was that they weren't too much trouble. I certainly didn't think that it was a good idea to send them away just yet. Draco had sniggered at this, certain that I had selfish motives at heart – and why shouldn't I? – and I well expected to be overruled. Ginny had an extensive family and there were many places she could be staying. There was no need for her to be cluttering up the infirmary. However, I wasn't particularly keen to be the one to tell her that she'd outstayed her welcome.

Charity shrugged. "They really ought to leave," she remarked, as if she had known what I was thinking. "I don't know what mum's trying to achieve by staying there. Unless she's trying to seduce you, of course." There was mischief in her eyes as she said it, but I noticed that there were faint traces of jealousy and possessiveness there, too. The girl cared about me for some reason that I had yet to work out. It didn't matter what I said – I couldn't convince her that I wasn't worth the effort. And to be honest, I wasn't particularly interested in trying.

She turned away and went back up the ward, and I followed. She was wearing white robes with the St Mungo's bone and wand crest on the front, and they made her look strangely angelic. Judging by the way that some of the patients in their beds were looking at her, I imagined that they thought the same thing. She was perfect for this sort of job; exactly the sort of person one would like to wake up and see if one was ill. Although personally I wouldn't like to have to wait until I was actually unwell.

We stopped by a bed. First she said to me, "Just bear with me a moment. My duty is to my patients first, Theodore." She gestured to the man on the bed. "His case is a bit like dad's," she added, sadly. "We _have_ to use Muggle terminology, which upsets the pure-bloods no end. The fact is, though, that Muggles know more about this than we do. Though the chief Healers try to obscure the fact that we're using Muggle names. They call this Potter Syndrome, which is stupid. It's actually non-Hodgkin's aggressive B-cell lymphoma with secondary malignant glioma." I didn't understand a word of that; seeing this, she smiled. "Cancer of the immune system, spreading to the brain. Nasty business. But we do what we can, even when that isn't much."

The patient certainly looked as if he appreciated Charity's efforts. I wondered if Draco would have said that this was a perfect job for a Gryffindor, permanently trying to save people. I would have hoped that he wouldn't be so cynical any more. Watching Charity, I thought that the wizarding world had come a long way since Harry had died. Before then, no one had _known_ much about cancer. It was a plebeian, Muggle disease, caused by too much exposure to technology, or something like that.

But Harry had shown otherwise. He was as magical as anyone could be. If people thought that power reserves were a defence against ordinary disease, then Harry – probably the most powerful wizard in England after the demise of Voldemort – had been a perfect counterexample. Some had tried to claim that it was due to Harry's Muggle blood, but that wasn't true either. Pure-bloods suffered too. _We are all slaves to our biology_ , Harry had said once, in a speech shortly before he had been hospitalised for the last time. That slogan was emblazoned above the door to his memorial ward. It was a grim reminder, but at times a necessary one.

Looking at the patient who currently commanded all of Charity's attention, I could see that he was nowhere near as far along as Harry had been when he had made that famous speech. He was obviously ill, but he was not yet skeletal. It had frightened me to see Harry that way. He had been, always, a source and a symbol of strength. Not just to me but to the whole of the Order. After the mysterious disappearance of the phoenix, Fawkes, it had been joked that Harry was the new Phoenix for the Order's name. He had touched death so many times, and yet always came back intact. Except, of course, for the last time. Whatever magical creatures Harry had been likened to, he had _died_ , and not been reborn from the ashes.

_He looked awful. That was the first thought that leapt into my mind, and it curled up there and refused to move. I couldn't stop staring. It was rude – it was inexcusable – but I couldn't stop. This was Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world. And yet it was more than that. This was Harry, the last line of defence, the bravest person I'd ever met, and the strongest, too. To see him brought so low hurt me. The pale cast of his skin worried me, and the lines across his face made him look far older than he actually was. He was thirty, the same age as I was, but though I could easily have passed for twenty, he looked nearer fifty._

_His eyes were darkened by pain and filled with stoic suffering. The fire that I had always admired, the fire that I knew Draco had both loved and hated, seemed to have vanished beneath the blanket of affliction. But for all that, he had not lost himself to the disease. He looked less powerful now – he could barely stand – but he was still recognisable as Harry. This was the war-weary man who had stood before us with a flipchart before the "final push" as he had dubbed it. This was the exhausted yet exultant man who had sat staring blankly for three hours at Voldemort's body before anyone could persuade him to move. He was tired now, but he was triumphant. He had always been more alive than anyone else, and that had not changed even now he was dying._

_I sat down in the chair by the bed. He looked up at me. 'Didn't expect you, Nott,' he said, after a moment. 'Not that I'm not glad you've come, but I'm surprised. Is Draco well?'_

_I was a little surprised that he asked after my friend, but I hid it well. 'He's fine,' I said. 'Complains from time to time that the school's full of children who haven't the first idea about Potions, but then what's new?'_

_He smiled weakly at this, and then held out a copy of the_ Daily Prophet _, saying, 'Reading this hurts my eyes sometimes. Do you mind? I don't expect there'll be anything interesting in it, or anything that's actually true, but it might be amusing.'_

_I snorted. 'Amusing? Very well.' And I picked up the paper and had a good look. 'Hmm... The Cannons won a game. How surprising.'_

_'Did they really?' Harry raised an eyebrow._

_I chuckled. 'Yes. They really did. I'm sure Ron will be ecstatic.' I tried not to show my distaste for his best friend too openly. Harry knew I didn't like the youngest Weasley son, but he tended to get upset if anyone said anything insulting about the man. I flipped the newspaper over to look at the front page, and then whistled. 'Here, listen to this, Potter,' I said, trying not to choke on my words, trying to ignore the state of the precious, once-golden boy before me. '_ Is there none to save the saviour? _Rita Skeeter's trying to blame all and sundry for your unfortunate condition.'_

_Harry snorted. 'Nothing to be done,' he said, bluntly and briskly. 'I'm dying. Have been for months. There's not a thing anyone can do but watch. Even the Muggles can't help me now.'_

_'Some people,' I said, shrewdly, 'would rather you had died in full battle, like a true hero.'_

_'I might not have killed Voldemort then,' he pointed out. He had never called his arch-nemesis anything other than that feared pseudonym. Other war heroes called him "Tom" or "Riddle", but Harry did not. It was partly to prove that the name itself held no power, and partly because to call him anything else would be to affirm that the Dark Lord had still been human when he had died. 'But in a way, I agree with them. The hero's outlived his cause, and any way I might have died would've been a let-down. Better this than a potions accident. When I meet Snape in hell, I'd never have lived that one down.' He looked bitterly amused. He'd never got over his failure to find the traitor and make him pay. It was almost as though the Ministry weren't_ _interested._

_My lips curled up unbidden into a dark smile. 'It'd have been more dramatic if you'd been martyred for them, you know. They'd have believed in the mythic Harry Potter then.'_

_'Let them believe what they choose,' he said. 'I don't care.' He looked at me askance. 'But you – who do you say I am?'_

_I stared. After all, what was Harry Potter to me? Too many things to count. 'You – you are the only person in the world who could've taken the woman I love away from me and yet not have me kill you.' He chuckled, weakly, and even then I couldn't hate him for stealing Ginny. He hadn't stolen her. She'd never been mine. Always his. 'You saved my life too many times to count, but you still look embarrassed whenever I try to thank you. You're a typical, daft-in-the-head Gryffindor, and yet I can't help but_ care _. That's what you are, Harry Potter. You're someone whom people_ love _. Not because of what you've done, or what you represent, but because of who you are. You inspire loyalty.'_

_He nodded, finally. 'It's good to hear you say that,' he said. 'Good to know that I'll be remembered for something other than having a scar on my head, other than defeating Voldemort.' He quirked a smile. 'I'll have it on my headstone – Harry Potter: Beloved of his friends, Sucked-up-to by the Ministry.' And I looked at him, amazed that he could still make jokes like this. And then we both laughed and I no longer felt uncomfortable in his presence. He was dying, yes, but he didn't seem to mind. I supposed, looking at him, that death really had "lost its sting"._

"What are you thinking about?" I snapped out of my reverie to see that Charity was looking at me, a faintly worried expression on her face.

I sighed.  "Your father."  I wasn't sure how she'd react, but there didn't seem to be any point in hiding it.  "I suppose I should've expected to be reminded of him when I came here."

Charity looked surprised to hear this, though why that should be I didn't know.  "I didn't think it would affect you."  She frowned.  "But then, I suppose you knew him better than I ever did.  You were his friend; you fought side by side.  I was just his daughter.  And... well, children never know their parents very well, do they?" I thought of my own father – a petty tyrant and a misguided fool – and thought that perhaps parents didn't know their children very well either.

We Apparated out to her flat, and she told me to stay in the front room while she went to get changed. I hadn't known if we could continue to make this – whatever 'this' was – work now that she was no longer at Hogwarts. But she had wanted to try, at least, and so had I. Given the magical ability to leave one place and instantly appear in another, it seemed stupid to give up on something that made me happy for the simple reason of _distance_. Mind you, it wasn't the distance that had worried me. It was the thought that Charity, for all her protestations to the contrary, might subconsciously have believed her mother's harsh words. That she might see herself as a substitute for something that I could never have.

She came out of her room and looked at me, her head on one side. She made no effort to cross the space between us, saying, "Dad was fond of you, too. I think he wanted Mum to marry you after he died. He always said you were a good man."

 _And now look at me_ , I thought, darkly. _Am I still a good man, Harry? Would you ever have forgiven me for touching your daughter?_   Aloud, I said, "That's probably why she didn't marry me. Didn't want to think that Harry was still dictating her life from beyond the grave." A nasty thought occurred to me. "Unless, of course, she thought that Harry was more than fond of me, and wanted to punish me for it."

She laughed. "And was dad _more than fond_ of you?"  I hadn't expected the idea to amuse her, considering that we were talking about her father.

I shook my head. "I doubt it," I said. "His suspect relationship with Draco aside, your father was always one for the ladies. And you surely know his history well enough to be aware that there were a lot of things in which Draco was the _only_ exception."

She didn't look at all disturbed at the thought of Harry and Draco, which I thought was odd, because at the time it had somewhat disturbed _me_. "I suppose you could say that," she said, smiling. Only now did she cross the room. "Anyway, whatever reason mum had, I'm glad she _didn't_ marry you."

I smirked. "Oh? And why would that be? I seem to remember you saying that you'd have preferred me to Ernie Macmillan."

"That was _before_ ," Charity pointed out. "If you were married to my mother, there are certain things I certainly wouldn't be allowed to do with you."

"If I'd been married to your mother for nine years, I doubt you'd want to," I shrugged. "I'd be 'Uncle Theo' or something equally nauseating. You'd never have looked at me in that way in the first place."

She smiled. "Exactly," she said. "That's why I'm glad.! Doubt flashed across her face suddenly, making her look young and vulnerable. She gnawed her bottom lip for about half a minute before asking, "Are you sure you wouldn't be happier if you'd married her? I know you spent twenty-odd years loving her."

 _Did I?_ I wondered. _Do I love her now? Did I ever love her, honestly?_ I said, "I'm not sure any more." Charity looked at me, quizzically. I explained. "When I was younger and we were both in the Order, I fell in love with her. We spent a lot of time together. But at the end of the war, the papers ran stories about me, setting me up in a sort of imaginary rivalry with your father.  It was embarrassing and awkward and I had no idea how to deal with it gracefully - so I fled to the Middle East and spent ten years unearthing ancient Dark artefacts in Saudi Arabia and Syria.  For all that time, I thought I loved her, but it was really just an image I'd kept in my head of a girl I used to know.  Since... well, since being with you I've started to ask myself whether I loved the woman she actually was.  And I still don't know the answer."

"At least you're honest." Charity nodded, slowly. "When I told my flatmate I was seeing a Slytherin, she told me that I ought to put a tracking charm on you. I think she had a bad experience with one of you snakes or something." I stifled a smile at this, but Charity looked more amused than offended.  And then, without warning, she kissed me, which fairly knocked the breath out of me.  Pulling back while I was still reeling, she raised an eyebrow and smirked.  "So, do you want to go out this evening, or do you want me to show you a few _other_ things that I wouldn't dream of doing if you were my step-father?"

I was left in no doubt as to what kind of things she meant. "Maybe later," I said, smiling at the impish look on her face. "For now, I believe we have a table reservation. And I for one prefer to be well fed before indulging in – other activities."

"So very sensible, Theo." Charity snorted. "I'll just get my coat and then we can be off."  She left the room, briefly, and when she returned she was wearing a thick black coat, suitable for the fast approaching winter.  "Let's go then," she said, smiling at me. "And not a word about my mother this evening, please.  I find I'm rather sick of hearing about her." She pulled a face. "Most girls my age can hope to one day escape their parents' shadows, but I doubt I ever will." Her smile changed, growing sharp-edged and ironic.  "So we won't talk about her. I'd say "not a thought" either, but I don't know if you can manage that."

I laughed. "You'd be surprised what I can manage," I told her, before looping my arm through hers and Apparating to an alley just round the corner from the restaurant. Truth be told, I felt oddly sorry for Charity, because what she had said was true; she was the daughter of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley, and she would never escape from that fact. But it was a beautiful evening, and I had decided _not_ to think about her parents, and so, true to my word, I did not think about Ginny once throughout – for about the first time in over twenty years.


	15. Six Impossible Things

Sunday morning found me poring over a large book that I had hoped never to see again after the disaster that had been my Ancient Runes O.W.L. I knew that I would not find anything as complicated as an explanation of how to replicate the method of runic communication probably used by Smith and Viper, but that was not what I was looking for. I had found the 32-rune "Egyptian Semaphore" system and was painstakingly copying down each of the symbols. If we did succeed in catching a spy, we would need to know what to look for. One of these symbols would have to be tattooed into the skin for the system to work. The fact that we couldn't know _which_ in advance meant that I had to have a copy of all of them.

The door to my office opened. I looked up and glowered at the person standing there.  "Never heard of knocking, Draco?"

He didn't fall for it. "Malfoys don't _knock_ , Theodore," he said, as if talking to a child. I rolled my eyes at him and he smiled thinly. "Are you working on the runes?" I nodded. "Good. We've got Hermione in the Runes classroom, poring over some of the driest books I've ever seen. I had to escape. They're talking a whole different _language_ in there. She should definitely have been a Ravenclaw. They seem to have a special studying dialect that mere mortals don't have a hope of understanding." He grimaced. "My own son thinks I'm an idiot."

I shrugged. "Hermione's here? I wonder how they managed that. She seemed dead against having anything to do with our world again when I…" I stopped before I could give myself away. Draco didn't need to know about the conversation I'd had with Hermione.  I wasn't selling her information, so it seemed stupid to let it go for free.

Draco, as always, was perceptive enough to notice my hesitation. "So that's what you stayed behind for!" he cried. "Sly dog. You thought you could sweet-talk her into coming back and helping us, but she knocked you back." I didn't correct him. There was nothing I could have said to contradict him other than the truth, and I certainly didn't want to tell him that.  Fortunately, he was quite convinced that he was right, and swept right on with an obvious sense of satisfaction.  "I doubt she'd have been so amenable to the suggestion if Macmillan hadn't killed Weasley. I know the divorce was messy, but she still cared for him in a way. She's a Gryffindor. She has to avenge that death." Draco shook his head. "The idiots have brought this upon themselves."

"So everything will miraculously be okay now Hermione's here?" I asked, ironically, tipping my head to one side. "With her we'll suddenly be able to fight, suddenly be able to win where before we were only hiding and losing?"

Draco flushed. It was unusual for his cheeks to be any colour other than deadly pale; he wasn't often angry, and embarrassment didn't really touch him anymore.  Which was this?  I found it hard to tell.  "You forget," he said, icily. "She gave us this possible solution. If not for her, we wouldn't know how to identify spies. We wouldn't know _how_ Smith seems to know everything. We've got a better chance of winning now already, and she's done barely a week's worth of research. Remember, Theodore: _knowledge is power_." It was our motto during the war. Neither of us were Ravenclaws – for a good reason – but I had always been curious and Draco had always liked power.

I felt a little ashamed. "Sorry," I said. "It's just – well, you of all people should know that it's never a good idea to put all of the eggs in one basket. It's a mistake our people have made before, pinning all hope on one person. I didn't want to see _you_ make that mistake."

And Draco, who never cried and never showed emotion, sighed deeply and sat down. "I wouldn't wish that on another living soul, the way people treated Harry.  Much less someone I actually like."  He gave a crooked smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.  "There's no danger of that, though.  Hermione's nothing like Harry was.  She's not a man of action, so there's no danger of her being used as a weapon."  For a moment he looked very sad.  "You know, Harry never realised that he _was_ being used. He said that we make the best of the hand destiny deals us. He thought he was taking control. Thought that _he_ was in charge of the Order. Never noticed the hands behind the scenes, directing him. Didn't realise that all his beliefs were ones he'd been given, or that all of his choices had been more or less forced."

"Were they, though?" I frowned. "He always seemed like such a good strategist."

Draco laughed bitterly. "Weasley could always beat him at chess." Then he shrugged.  "Though I suppose that doesn't mean much.  And Harry _was_ good at knowing what to expect from our enemies.  It was just that, when he was being manipulated from within, he didn't seem to notice.  He never knew the difference between the way he felt and the way other people were trying to make him feel, for purposes of their own.  I don't think he ever understood why anyone should want to direct his actions."  A dry smirk flickered across the pale features.  "Some of his best ideas were ones he thought up _by himself_ , and yet some people still felt that he needed to be spoon-fed. No one realised that he was clever. _I_ did. I wouldn't have put up with him if he wasn't."

This made me wonder exactly what Draco had had to put up with. And I noticed that he had, in his defence of Harry, used much the same words as Hermione had. It seemed that they both believed that too many people had sold Harry short. Although I wouldn't have been surprised if he had _tried_ to hide the fact that he was clever. He had been famous, powerful, a good flier and the youngest Seeker in a century. Why should he have needed to flaunt his intelligence as well? If he'd been too perfect, everyone would have hated him, and he knew it _.  And why not?  It'd be a Slytherin thing to do, but it wouldn't have been the first time.  
_

Another voice cut across my thoughts. "Yes, we all know you don't suffer fools gladly, Malfoy." The voice was strangely familiar – I was sure that I had heard it before, but not for quite some time. I looked up from the textbook again, just as Draco called back:

"Well, you _should_ know by now, Longbottom – although I suppose I put up with _you_ for long enough." There was surprisingly little animosity in the tone, considering that Draco was talking to yet another Gryffindor enemy. If he had been told twenty-five years ago that he would one day have a civil conversation with Neville Longbottom, I imagine that Draco would've laughed the speaker out of the room. But now – most of my Slytherin classmates would have said that we had both gone soft. I preferred to think of it as growing up. After all, if the Gryffindors could forgive us for being Slytherins, it'd have been childish to hold _their_ House against them.

Neville smiled to show Draco that he hadn't been at all insulted by his words and came into the room. "Nice to see you again, Nott," he said, politely, taking a seat on the other side of my desk. "It seems as if Hogwarts is the place to be again. It's almost like old times – huddling in school and trying to find ways of thwarting the Dark Lord." He sighed as though nostalgic, but I looked at him and I could see the fear that lingered behind the false brightness in his wide eyes.

Draco snorted. "And to think I thought that children went to school to _learn!"_ he exclaimed. "I didn't think that they were supposed to be plotting the downfall of insane Dark Lords. At least now I _know_ why the Gryffindors' work is almost always rushed and shoddy." He smiled ironically and stretched out like a cat. "So, why're you here, Longbottom? Not that I _mind_ catching up with old comrades, but something tells me that there's something more serious going on. Viper? Has your department got in on this, too?"

Neville laughed. _"M_ _y_ department, as you so kindly put it, has been in this from the beginning," he said. "You surely don't think that the Muggle-worthy Excuse Committee has had a moment's peace since this Viper appeared on the scene? If an aspiring Dark Lord doesn't count as a magical catastrophe, I don't know what does." He looked at me now, and asked, "How many years have you been teaching here now, Nott? There are juniors in the department who say they were taught by you from first year on, so it must have been a while. Far cry from when we were at school, with a new teacher every year."

I thought about it. "I've been here twelve years," I told him, after a moment. "Long enough for some of your new blood to have been in my classes, certainly." I thought back over the long line of incompetent Defence teachers we had had during my education. It was a wonder that I had managed to achieve anything like a decent score in my OWLs, given all of the disruption. Unlike the rest of the people I knew had received an 'O', I had not had the considerable advantage of being tutored by Harry. I'd made do with Umbridge – my achievements were my own.

"Seems as if the curse on the Defence position's finally been broken, then," he commented. I hadn't ever really believed in that curse. Harry had said that no one could last more than a year in the job because it had been cursed by Lord Voldemort, but I couldn't believe that was so. It was surely a coincidence that it was only after Riddle's demise that any teacher managed to stay for a second year. Or maybe it wasn't. I was a strong believer in self-fulfilling prophecies – if you started the year believing that the job was cursed, it was surely no surprise when you failed in it.

I shrugged. "If there ever was one," I replied, simply, but Neville shot me a dubious look. He was not someone I would have written down as superstitious; fate had never done him any favours, and he should know as well as anyone that curses just didn't work that way.  "Speaking of curses, are you here on business? Has Hogwarts become host to some magical accident or catastrophe?" I didn't know if the werewolf's body would count. That was Beast and Auror divisions, and the wolf squad had already come and gone. Lupin, the alpha, had stayed around, but I suspected that this was more because he was recalling old times at the school than from actual necessity.

"It's a kind of liaison," Neville said. "This rune system is revolutionary." Seeing Draco's brows furrow, he felt moved to explain.  "Yes, I know that the Ancient Egyptians used it, but this kind of magic hasn't been seen anywhere in the world for over two thousand years, and _never_ in this country. We still haven't found where they got the information from. That's what Hermione's doing. She's going through the Hogwarts library _and_ the official Ministry library, and yet she still hasn't found instructions for how to do something this complicated."

Draco's eyes flicked from side to side in a manner that was almost nervous. I stared. Draco was _never_ nervous. He cleared his throat. "These runes... they'd be related to the Dark Mark, wouldn't they?" he ventured. Neville stared. I nodded – it was a thought that had crossed my mind when I'd first heard the term _Protean charm_ applied to the runes. "This is more complicated, perhaps, but it's the same type of spell. My – my father… he had books in the Manor library about how that sort of mark – Fealty Marks, they're called – worked. He read them before he ever joined Voldemort, because he wasn't the sort to have any type of spell put on him that he didn't know anything about."

'You know the nature of the Dark Mark?' Neville looked torn between disgust and awe.

Draco nodded. "Yes, I know it," he said. "As Hermione said all those years ago, it's a kind of Protean charm. But different. Older. Deeper. Darker. Woven directly into the magic – some say, into the _soul_ – of the victim." He pulled back the left sleeve of his robes, exposing his forearm. There, on his flesh was the Mark, a symbol known and feared by wizards all over the British Isles for decades. It was no longer livid black and pulsing with magic; it was simply a dead thing, a faded tattoo that would remain on his skin and on his soul – _forever_.

Most people would've recoiled faced with that spectacle, so my respect for Neville only increased when his only response was to nod, gravely. "Many people thought it would vanish once Voldemort died," he said. He hadn't stuttered over the Dark Lord's name since he came of age. I had once wondered why Neville had been made a Gryffindor, but no one who had seen him in battle could doubt that he was where he was supposed to be. "Spells usually fade with the death of the caster."

"The Dark Mark's not just a spell, though."  Draco grew more agitated.  "That's why it's relevant to the discussion of this runic communication. The Dark Lord communicated with his Death Eaters using the Mark – albeit very _crude_ messages, most of them pain signals. The thing is, Hermione said that these runes would not just be tattooed onto the skin – they'd be woven into the spy's magic as well. And that's what the Dark Mark is. It remains on my skin even now, because it's embedded in my magic. I don't doubt that there are ways to remove it, but some of my magic – probably most of it – would go with it. Riddle was never a fool. If anyone wanted to abandon him without his consent, they'd have to make themselves a Squib, near enough."

In a quiet voice, I added, "Never let it be said that Riddle wasn't fiendishly clever. He was insane, yes, but he was never stupid."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Apart from the part where he was fanatical about the destruction of anyone with Muggle blood, when all the while there were _legitimate_ reasons to attack the Ministry and attempt to seize control." He half-smiled at Neville. "But don't worry, Longbottom; I'm not about to make the attempt myself. You know me – I prefer comfort to power, when it comes down to it. And my life here is comfortable. Or it will be, once we've got rid of this Viper and his snivelling sycophant Smith."'

"Smith's more than a sycophant," Neville said, seriously. "He's a major power in his own right. I don't know where he _got_ the power from – back in the D.A. days he was never that good – but maybe that's where Viper comes in. You know, maybe he gave Smith all the power he could handle in exchange for his unwavering loyalty." He shrugged. "We all know that Hufflepuffs are good at unwavering loyalty. Why's loyalty any different when given to an evil tyrant than when pledged to a leader of the Light?" I looked at the former Gryffindor, surprised. I thought similar things myself, but I hadn't imagined that Neville would. Possibly I had underestimated the soft-spoken man.

Draco laughed. "Funny that no one had ever _considered_ the possibility of a Hufflepuff turning Dark before, then," he said. "As if loyalty and honesty were only characteristics of _good_ people. Voldemort valued loyalty and honesty above all things, back in the days when I served him. Not that lying to him or thinking of betraying him would do anyone any good; he was a master Legilimens. He always knew everything. It was funny – most of the Death Eaters had never even heard of Legilimency, so they were very superstitious about the way their Lord seemed to know their deepest, darkest thoughts."

"Even people who've been exposed to magic since the day they were born get edgy if they find something they can't explain," I added. I spoke from my own experience on the matter. Pure-bloods from old families were the worst, and my father had been a prime example. That was why such people hated Muggles and wanted to destroy them. The Muggle world was something they couldn't understand, since things happened miraculously, without any input from magic. And people fear what they do not understand.

"That's no excuse for disrupting the entire wizarding world, though."  Draco rolled his eyes, then leaned over my parchment.  "But let's not talk about that any more. Have you finished copying out those runes yet, Theodore? Because if you have, you probably ought to take it up to Hermione, so she can 'get a feel for the ambient magic' of the tattoos we'll be looking for. Personally, I'm surprised that she hadn't had the whole semaphore system memorised. It's shaken my faith in the human encyclopaedia, I can tell you that." He was smiling as he said it, which softened the words and made them almost harmless.

"I'll take the list up now," I said. "But shouldn't you stay away? Didn't Hermione just send you away? You know how she gets when everyone's hovering around looking over her shoulders while she's studying."

Draco grimaced. "You know how _I_ get when people try to keep me from having any input," he pointed out. "And she didn't chase me away, anyway. I came to see how you were doing. I doubt she even noticed that I'd left. If I slip back in quietly enough, I bet she'd think I'd been there all along."

'Who else is up there?' I asked, as an afterthought. 'Did you say that Dorado was helping out, or something?'

"I sent Luna up there when we arrived," said Neville, and this was the first indication we had had that he had not come alone. Luna Lovegood was a senior member of the team at the Department of Mysteries, and it was said that she was so successful there because she lived in a world that was at right angles to the world that everyone else saw. She was a mystery herself; no one knew more about her than her name, her achievements and the fact that her father owned _The Quibbler_. One thing that was generally known was her apparent belief in the stories that paper printed. She considered those who could believe six impossible things before breakfast rank amateurs.

Draco whistled. "You brought Lovegood?" he asked, a smile beginning to take over his face. For whatever reason, he had always seemed to enjoy the strange girl's company, though whether he was laughing with her or at her was a matter of some debate. Draco might be my closest friend, but even I had to admit that he had been malicious as a boy and sometimes still could be. "I suppose she's come to talk worgs with Lupin. There's a mystery for you: how did a werewolf start the slide into becoming a worg without anyone in the Ministry having any idea?"

I stood up. "I think we'd all like to know that," I said, seriously. 'But for now, we have to do what we can and leave the unanswerable questions to the philosophers." I went over to the door and then turned to look at the occupants of my office. "Are you coming with me, or do you intend to wreck my rooms while I'm away?" Draco rolled his eyes at me – the last time he had destroyed someone's personal effects had been seventeen years ago, when the two of us had burnt everything that had ever belonged to Snape, exorcising the spirit of our onetime Head of House from the rooms that he had occupied before that fateful night.

In the end, both of them accompanied me to the Ancient Runes classroom, which was on the fifth floor, sandwiched between the Muggle Studies and Arithmancy departments, and presided over by a series of temporary teachers. Interest in the subject had gradually waned over the years – not least because it was so difficult, and the students of today did not seem inclined to apply themselves or use their brains – and there had been talk at the last meeting of the Board of Governors of scrapping it completely.

Hermione sat behind the desk, which was piled so high with books that it was almost impossible to see her. Not all of the books were standard Hogwarts issue; some of them had come from the Ministry Library of the Dark Arts, a tightly regulated store for all of those books that the Restricted Section of our library would never stock. It was here that Harry, Ron and Hermione had gone to discover more about Horcruxes, a subject that had been banned at Hogwarts for over a hundred years.

Behind Hermione stood the current teacher, whose first name I couldn't remember, though the students addressed him as Professor Langley. He was eyeing Hermione in a way that was admiring of more than simply her study skills, and I fought with the temptation to tell him that she had only recently been widowed. Still, it didn't seem as though she had lost much sleep over the death of her ex-husband, and who could blame her? It was hardly as if they'd been on good terms when the man had died.

Sitting apart from the others in the front row of student seating, Luna Lovegood was deep in discussion with Dorado, who had his head bowed over a large book. I didn't imagine that my friend's son was capable of finding an answer if Hermione could not. He was unusually bright, but not as clever as she had been at his age. Still, Dorado had an advantage over Hermione; he had a creative imagination and a love of experimentation. He was better than anyone in the school at Potions – if Slughorn had met him, he would have probably ranked him alongside Lily Evans for innovation.

I handed over my roll of parchment to Hermione, who looked up momentarily and gave me a tight smile before returning to her work. I didn't imagine that the answer would be in the semaphore system itself, but she had said that she needed to understand the nuances of the rune magic in order to work out exactly how the long-distance manipulation could work. And once she'd found the answer to that, we might be able to detect the presence of such a rune on a person without having to remove all of their clothes to check. It reminded me of the Dark Mark Detector that Draco and Terry had invented during the War, except, of course, that this was a far more sophisticated system of communication.

Luna looked up at that moment and smiled vaguely in my direction, so I went over to talk to her. I had never known her well, but then no one really had, apart from Harry, who had confided in her and trusted her more than anyone except Ron and Hermione. I had liked her, seeing her strange beliefs and odd ways of speaking as an attempt to relieve the seriousness of life. Draco had been more inclined to sneer at her behind her back, never having any sort of patience for those who he saw as strange or _different_. I was pleased to see that Dorado didn't share this opinion; Luna was clever and unusually insightful for all her oddities.

"Ah, Theodore Nott," she said, as I sat down opposite her. "It has been a while, hasn't it?" Then, as if afraid she had seemed too normal, she added, "But then, I imagine that training Heliopaths must take up a lot of your time." She smiled rather lopsidedly, and Dorado attempted to stifle his laughter. "The Department is very interested in this worg," she said, confirming mine and Draco's suspicions on the matter. "They sent me to find out about it, but the teacher whose brother was killed by the worg doesn't want to speak to me. Remus Lupin has gone to find her. I do hope he doesn't have to force her to talk. I wouldn't like that."

The mildness of her manner could be disarming, but sometimes it was chilling, even frightening. At those times, it was hard to forget that her Department conducted experiments into the nature of death and the effect of torture on the soul. Of all of the offices in the Ministry, the Department of Mysteries was the least accountable and the most unpredictable. Unspeakables tended to be given a wide berth at cocktail parties, and seldom got invited to dinner at all. The only people less popular were the Ministry Executioners, and that was probably a hang-over from the time the position had been held by Walden Macnair.

"We're all dying to know how a worg managed to get loose in Britain without anyone knowing anything about it," I said, looking into her unnerving eyes to try and show her how urgent this was. With anyone else, I wouldn't have seen the point – it was _obviously_ urgent – but Luna's priorities seemed different from those of everyone else in the world. "Worgs are - were - wizards too far entrenched in the Dark Arts to value their humanity over the power that losing it could gain them. So, they're really not that different from Riddle, who cared so little for his soul that he mutilated it beyond repair." _Another Voldemort_ , I thought, and shuddered. "No one wants to think that such a terrible person could have gone unnoticed for so long."

Luna shrugged. "People don't like to think that Wrackspurts and Nargles exist, either," she said. "That doesn't mean that they don't." Somehow I didn't think that this was a very good parallel to draw, and Luna seemed to know that, because she offered me an odd smile. "It seems impossible," she went on. "But now is a time for the impossible to become possible.  Demons prowl the land, the dead return to life, and there is evil here, lurking in this school." She shuddered. "Now is not a good time to fight the good fight. But everyone who is not against us is for us."

This seemed typical Luna – enigmatic and seemingly meaningless. But even she seemed far graver than was usual. Had the sheer hopelessness of the situation got to her, as well? I thought about what she had said. _Demons prowl the land_ could be a reference to the worg – the demon wolf – or to Viper and Smith. But what did she mean by _the dead return to life_? Did that mean that someone we'd thought of as dead wasn't? Could that person be hiding behind the secret identity of Viper? So many people I had known were now dead that it could be anyone. Or perhaps not. Everything became crystal clear in my mind. I could think of only one person who had 'died' without leaving a body: Professor Severus Snape.


	16. Breaking the Long Silence

Three days before Christmas I found myself in the graveyard where the sad earthly remains of Blaise Zabini had been laid to rest exactly twenty-two years before. His had been a short life and perhaps a sad one too, though I had never attempted to excuse him or make him out to be a martyr. He had killed his own mother, after all. The fact that he had hanged himself from remorse afterwards could not make a saint out of a sinner. He had not been a pleasant person in life, and death had done nothing for my memory of him except soften the edges. I did not much mourn him – in truth, I felt more sympathy for Pansy, who had at least died fighting for a cause in which she believed.

And yet this was a ritual of mine, one I had observed since the war had ended and it had been safe to walk the streets. It was not something that Draco understood. His typical argument was 'he'd never have visited our graves except to spit on them', which was probably true, but nonetheless irrelevant. It wasn't Blaise I visited. My thoughts on this day had nothing to do with the dark-skinned, dark-hearted and ultimately cowardly boy with whom I had shared a room for six years. It was more simply a memorial of the war, of that terrible period of frightening pointlessness when death had lurked around every corner. It was also – though I barely dared to think it – because this fate could have been Draco's. If not for providence and the determination of Harry Potter, his suicide attempt could have been successful. And then it might be _his_ grave that I visited once a year.

The grave was well-worn by now and looked neglected. No one laid flowers at his last resting-place, because his last act before the one that had taken his own life had been to kill his only living relative. It was so easy to be sucked into feeling sorry for him, but he didn't deserve it. Possibly his mother had deserved such pity, but even that was doubtful. Had she brought her death upon herself in the way she had raised her son? In what she had done, or in what she had failed to do? I looked at faded words etched into weathered stone and hated Blaise, who had been too weak to face the consequences of his actions – who had served the Dark Lord and not waited to collect his reward.

It was then that a voice behind me spoke, alerting me to the fact that I was not alone in the graveyard. Someone else was standing there in the half-dark and the drizzle. Someone who was watching me but had made no attempt to attack. The voice – a male voice, low, smooth and distantly familiar – said, "A coward turns away, but a brave man's choice is danger."  The words were as familiar to me as the voice, but – unlike the voice – I could not place them.  Not that they really mattered.  What did matter was that I now knew who stood behind me.  I knew, and the knowledge scared me.

I turned slowly, praying as I did so that I would be proved wrong, but it was not to be. A tall, lean man stood about ten yards behind me, leaning against a yew tree and watching me calmly from deep, implacably black eyes. He had had black hair once, but now it was laced with white, like a badger's pelt. Not that this really changed anything – I still recognised his face, just as I had recognised his voice. He was someone who once met could never be forgotten.  Whether he had made your life a misery or simply scared you a little for three hours a week, not one of his students would have failed to remember his name.

"I'm surprised to see you here, Snape," I said, evenly, trying not to show that I was scared of him. But he'd expect me to be afraid; surely anyone would be when faced with a person more powerful than themselves. The fact remained that if he'd wanted me dead I'd be dead already. I hadn't heard him approach and there wouldn't have been much I could have done about it if I had. This was a man who had been inventing his own spells since he was a child, someone with enough raw power to force magic to do his bidding with a mere thought.

"But not surprised to see me alive," he returned, one corner of his thin mouth curling up in an ironic half-smile. I shook my head and said nothing else. It seemed stupid now, my conviction that Snape could possibly be Viper. He would never have chosen such a name for himself, and why should he? He'd had a ready title already – 'the half-blood prince' – though that name might not have served him well had he wanted to rally supporters to his cause based on blood purity. But this war was not about blood purity, just as the previous one had not been. This war was the same as any other conflict in the history of wizards; the result of a megalomaniac clashing with the forces of law _because he could_.

For a moment he simply stared at Blaise's grave, his contempt obvious from his expression and posture.  Then he looked back at me, his brow creased in confusion.  "I don't understand."  I remained silent, though it was difficult to do so under that gaze.  "Why do you come here?  You and he were never friends, and he died a coward. You never had any patience with cowardice, as I recall." This much was true; I had drawn his attention when, during an argument in the Slytherin common room – those frequent brawls with words – I had claimed that self-preservation was not cowardice, and cunning and ambition were not self-interest. It had not gone over well, and Draco had thought I was accusing _him_ of being a coward, but the words were truer than anything else I had ever spoken within those walls.

"Neither did you," I returned, meeting his eyes defiantly. If he wanted to kill me I would die, but if he wanted to argue I could answer back with impunity. "Harry told me that you didn't take kindly to being called coward." He winced but said nothing. I wondered if, perhaps, he regretted the way he had treated Harry now that the other man was dead. He had always claimed that Snape despised him because of his father, but I thought otherwise – there was something unpleasantly personal in that enmity, and it could hardly reflect well on a supposedly mature man to feel such hate for an oblivious child.

"He spoke of things he didn't understand," said Snape now, as if that was an excuse for everything that had passed between those two. "He'd have expected the worst of me, were he standing in your shoes now. He would have attacked me the moment he saw me. And given the power he had when he was twenty, he'd probably have killed me." Not all of that power had been Harry's, and that was the most frightening thing about it. Harry had destroyed Voldemort's soul and his body, but his magic had been more resilient and had attached itself to the victor. The Dark Lord's magic had never seemed to harm or influence Harry, but nobody had been happy about it at the time.

I shrugged. Under the surface I was burning with curiosity and with anger. How was he still alive? It was one thing to suspect that such a thing might be true, but quite another to be faced with such incontrovertible evidence. What had he been doing all these years? How had we been unable to find him? If he wasn't Viper – and I doubted that now – why was he here, and what did he want with me? I said nothing of this; my only reply was, "I'm a Slytherin. We look before we leap, and listen before we attack people who are stronger than us and could easily destroy us." It would not, perhaps, be as easy as all that, but it would be better for him to underestimate me.

"Even so, you do not bow."  There was a bitter tang to the words, and I could well believe that he regretted the time he had spent kneeling before the Dark Lord.  Snape was far more powerful than I was, and yet I had never grovelled before a greater power, or called any man 'master'.  Did he envy me the strength of my convictions.

"Would you want me to?" I asked, looking straight into his eyes with all the force I dared muster. It was always awful, meeting someone's eyes and looking deep into their soul. His was twisted and black, as I had imagined it would be, and tattered beyond belief. Yet the strongest emotion there was _remorse_ , terrible, suffocating remorse that caused me physical pain. The force behind his actions was obligation, a dark harness for a dark soul, binding the shreds together and driving him onward. I had seen Draco's soul in his darkest hours, and yet I had never seen anything remotely like this. I should not have looked. He only frightened me _more_ now that I knew what he was.

A long time ago, when I had known him before, I would have looked away first. Now, he did, flinching away from my gaze as though it was fire. Keeping his eyes averted, he said, "So, now you must know what I am. You shouldn't do that. You never know when you might see something you really don't want to see." It was obvious that he did not have the dubious gift; anyone who has ever soul-gazed knows that you _always_ see things you would rather not have. Exercising the ability was never a conscious choice anyway; I wouldn't have been able to stop it however much I'd wanted to.

"Nobody's soul is pretty," I remarked, with some irony, ignoring the fact that his was flailed and eviscerated, so far from normal and healthy that I could find no words for it. This was the only branch of divinatory magic that I had ever been capable of, but now was one of the times when I wished wholeheartedly to be able to read crystal balls instead. "You are sorry," I said, and it wasn't a question, because I had seen the truth. "But you believe that what you are doing is the best way to pay off your debt." He still avoided meeting my eyes, for which I couldn't blame him. "I don't know what it is that you are doing, or how you survived all these years without us finding you."

He smiled blackly, perhaps from satisfaction that, for all I had managed to see and discern in a single glance, there were still things that I did not know. And that was the way it would always be, for as with all Divination, there were limits to what you could discover even by looking into someone's soul. It was odd that _Snape_ should imagine it to be complete and infallible – he was a Legilimens of sorts, after all, and the similarities between the two types of magic were such that he ought to have realised that there would be the same limitations.

"Did you never wonder why the Ministry had no interest in helping you track me down?" he asked now, the superior expression he had carefully cultivated for years settling down in its accustomed place. He had come a long way from his roots in a decaying industrial town in the North of England, yet he had thrown that progress away for the power to be gained by serving two masters. "Were you never suspicious at how well I had managed to cover my trail? I had help, you know. You must have realised that. But who would help the murderer of Albus Dumbledore?"

Bringing up his most famous crime was a sort of weak bravado that didn't fool me at all. He did not _like_ the fact that he was Dumbledore's killer, for all that he might pretend that he didn't care. "So you've been working for the Ministry all this time, is that what I'm supposed to conclude?" I asked, allowing scepticism to just barely touch my voice. "What jobs do they have for a former Death Eater? Do you hunt down aspiring Dark Lords and stop them before they can become dangerous? Is that why you're here? Have you come to tell me who Viper is, or even how to defeat him?"  Though, really, I knew that was too much to hope for.

"If I knew that, do you think I'd tell you?" he asked, and I was struck by the realisation that he was childish, immature, locked still in the battles of his childhood. Suddenly it did not seem unreasonable that this man could hate a child for what his father had done. It didn't make me feel any safer. The fact remained that Snape could wipe the floor with me, and that _I still didn't know what he wanted_. I was dealing with someone whose aims I did not know, and that was always dangerous. "I know the Slytherin penchant for taking credit for other people's actions."

I looked up and he looked away, hurriedly. "So, you never learnt to see beyond house badges, Snape?" I said, my voice thick with contempt. "It's strange that you, a Slytherin, should imply that our house has no honour. Whatever anyone else in Slytherin might be, I have my honour, and I'd never steal anyone else's limelight. I've no taste for that sort of acclaim anyway, not that I'd expect to get any." His eyes filled with a calculating light, but I had no time to hear him. "You came here for a reason," I said, coldly. 'Whatever it was you wanted to say, say it. I've no patience left for you. I don't care what side you were on in the War.  I don't think I ever really cared. Whatever you might _say_ , I've always suspected that the only cause you ever supported was your own survival."

"Trading insults is to no one's advantage," he said, as though it had been _I_ who had started the argument. I let him take the moral high ground; it was probably unfamiliar territory for him. "It is just – I have made my living in a world that would love to tear me to shreds by notifying the Ministry of any suspicious-looking Dark characters that appear so that they may be apprehended before they cause trouble. And yet _I did not see Viper coming_. The fact that I do not know who he is suggests that either he has hidden himself well, or that nothing here is what it seems to be." This was so similar to what Luna had said on the subject that I was forced to acknowledge his wisdom.

I didn't have to do it kindly, though. "We didn't need you to tell us that," I said, acidly. "This has been planned for a long time, though; that much is obvious. Werewolves don't become worgs overnight, and certainly not without good reason. This worg has been cultivated for a _purpose_. That means that what we're seeing isn't some amateur dramatics production of an insane Dark Lord, and it's certainly not some crackpot Dark Arts slave who's suddenly decided he'd like a bit of power he's not entitled to. It's the endgame of some fiendish chess match that's been going on for a long time now – only we haven't been watching."

"Maybe _you_ have not been watching," he retorted, ungraciously. "But the fact remains that _I_ have, and I saw nothing that led me to believe that anything of this kind was brewing." Anger simmered underneath my impassive exterior, and I let it. How dare he come here and interrupt my ritual, destroy forever my comfortable illusion that he was dead, simply for the sake of telling me _nothing at all?_ Then he added, "I've been keeping an eye on Smith for some time. For fifteen years now I've known that he was no good, that he was only waiting for an opportunity to turn on us. He's dangerous – deadly dangerous – because his hatred and anger is purely irrational."

I shrugged, though I had met Smith and had been terrified by the chill in his eyes that had been so much worse, so much more inhuman, than madness. "He's schizoid," I said, idly. It was the fashionable excuse for Viper's lieutenant, since twentieth century Muggle psychology was currently in vogue. I didn't _believe_ it, of course – the only label Smith deserved was 'evil' – but I knew that it would annoy Snape to hear it more than it would annoy me to say it. For some reason that seemed important, and I hoped that didn't mean that he'd dragged me down to his level.

Snape sneered. "Schizoid," he repeated, flatly. "That's the worst of people today. Everyone's always looking for a medical explanation, as if evil could be explained by a chemical imbalance, or something." He looked at me, scathingly. "I'd never thought you'd subscribe to the popular _wisdom"_ – this said with a particularly venomous scowl – "and I for one don't hold with saying it's all due to an illness that he can't help having. The next thing you know, when we finally catch him, the people will demand that he be treated with expensive drugs and kept in a fancy hospital room – with the highest security clearance, of course." In his indignation, his voice had crept back towards its northern roots, and he no longer sounded so sophisticated, nor so forbidding.

"That will never happen," I said, hotly. "Not while Terry Boot's in charge of the case. He'd sooner kill Smith than let him get away with it like that. He's an intelligent man; he knows evil when he meets it. Smith's evil."

Slowly, hesitating over each word as if trying out the feel of them, he asked, "Have you noticed that no one really _talks_ about Viper? It's all always about Zacharias Smith." He added, "Incidentally, I wasn't surprised to find out that Macmillan was in league with him. They'd been casual acquaintances for years, and I noticed that they were meeting more often. I suggested to the Ministry that Smith was a danger, and possibly Macmillan too, but no one wanted to believe that a pair of Hufflepuffs could do anything serious." He laughed, darkly. "They were wrong. Not that they'd admit it; then they'd have to admit that the evidence had been lying under their noses for years, and someone might want to know _why_."

"I suppose you nobly refrained from saying 'I told you so'," I said, sardonically.

He glared. "I wouldn't jeer like that," he said, quietly yet forcefully. _"You're_ being hoodwinked just as surely as the Ministry ever were, simply because you don't want to believe that someone dear to your heart is capable of betraying you. But most people are capable of treachery, even – no, _especially_ – the ones you trust above all. I'd keep a close eye on those close to you, Nott; the fact that you love someone doesn't make them immune to temptation." I felt my heart sink. Could he be referring to Charity? Certainly there was no one dearer to me – save Draco, of course, and I knew that he would never betray me – yet the signs had been there. Hadn't she once talked of giving up the fight?

To put the final nail in the coffin of my doubt, he added, "Think of Macmillan. How likely is it that _no one_ in his blissful little family unit was aware of what he was doing? Maybe all they're guilty of is turning a blind eye, but maybe not. How can you be sure?" _I can't_ was the simple, unwelcome answer. _How can I be certain of anyone except myself?_ And I realised that that was why Snape had been alone for all of these years, choosing to hide even the fact of his continued existence from all but a select few. He didn't trust anyone. As I was beginning to see, that was a horrible, cold way to live one's life. It is only possible to _live_ if one trusts others, even if that means that one is sometimes deceived. But does that hold true if the price of deception is so high? If more than a man's happiness is at stake?

"I wish I knew who you were warning me against," I said, determined not to believe that Charity could have anything to do with Viper. She was a sweet girl, everyone knew that. She _loved_ me. She wouldn't do that to me. _Or would she?_ Doubt poisoned my mind, and for a moment I knew how Othello must have felt, for all that Snape was an unlikely Iago.

He inclined his head, a bitter smile touching his lips at what to him seemed to be evidence of my wilful blindness. "You know," he said. "You already know. Or you would, if you'd let yourself see it. It's not my place to warn you, but I'd hate to see you, perhaps the last _true_ Slytherin, fall into so simple a trap. That's why I came here. You have to be warned. All of you. There's a traitor in your midst – and they move soon. It may be a red Christmas again this year." I knew what he meant. No one my age did _not_ know about the Christmas Massacre. I had tried to forget, but I did not mind the pain memory caused me if it would prevent a repeat of that terrible day.

"It won't come to that," I said. "Because Charity's not a traitor." But he was gone. Nothing answered my declaration except the cold empty air. I had wanted to hear him agree with me, to have him tell me that I had got the wrong end of the stick, but that comfort was denied. And perhaps Charity was working to betray me. I could not know. I did not want to believe it. But as Snape had said, _the fact that you love someone doesn't make them immune to temptation_. I forced that thought from my mind. There were more important things to think of. Such as: _why_ did Viper hide behind Zacharias Smith? Why was it so hard to find out anything about him? And, of course: who on earth _was_ he?


	17. Slytherin Heroics

Christmas at Draco's house was always a rather formal affair; it was one of the few places left in Britain where one could experience the proper, traditional, wizarding festivities. This year, despite the war and the terrible, creeping fear, everything would be just as it usually was. Draco was not a man who surrendered power over his life easily, if at all, and to his mind, if he changed his routine in the slightest, he would be letting Viper win. His obstinacy, of which this was symptomatic, was not his most attractive feature, but when an institution such as Christmas at Whitethorns was threatened, it was certainly a welcome one.

Whitethorns itself was a small house for a Malfoy to occupy, though a large one by most standards. It was by now every bit as famous as the old Manor that had been torn from Draco, though it had none of the negative associations. For the last thirteen years – since I had returned to England for good after my travels in the East – I had spent Christmas there, and those celebrations by far eclipsed anything that had ever happened in the dreary house of my father and grandfather in the years of my childhood. Neither of them had cared much for Christmas; they were both of singularly dour dispositions.

We were four for Christmas, which was not unusual, but for once the fourth was not Draco's ex-wife but Charity. This change was very welcome to me, and scarcely less so to Draco and Dorado. After all, this ex-wife was a woman who had walked away from them both fifteen years ago, and the fact that she had brought Dorado into the world surely paled into insignificance when one considered that she had abandoned him five weeks later. It would not be hard for Charity to make a better impression on the Malfoy heir, who was always much ruder to his mother than he ever was to Draco.

It was Christmas Eve when the alert came. We were sitting in the drawing room – even if he had been reduced to living in a hovel, Draco would still have had a drawing room – when the fire flared green and Ginny tumbled out of it. Everyone had tensed when the flames had changed colour, though no one whom we did not trust would be able to get in. An unannounced visit on Christmas Eve could hardly be a good thing. And indeed it did not look like it was, because Ginny was absolutely distraught; she was incoherent and trails streaking down her cheeks told me that she had been crying.

Draco was on his feet immediately, acting the civilised and concerned host and pressing a glass of brandy upon her for the shock. He showed her to a chair, and once she was seated, asked, "What's happened?" His were the alert tones of an Auror ready for action, and I realised that serving as a Reserve must have had some effect on him after all.

"I didn't know where else to come." Ginny's voice shook me to the core. I hadn't expected her to sound so broken, so hopeless, so _finished_ , and I dreaded to think what could have driven her here. "I know I ought to have gone to the Ministry, but you know them; they won't _do_ anything. And I know you will." I felt inclined to defend Terry and some of my other associates at the Ministry – Ginny was selling them short. But I said nothing. I was still waiting to hear what had happened, though part of me dreaded finding out. Eventually, in a choked voice, she managed to say, "Andrew's gone. He's been _taken_."

The stunned silence that followed was broken by Charity. "No," she said, her voice breaking with horror and fear. "No. They _can't_ do this! Not to Andrew!" As critically as I could manage, I assessed her performance. If what Snape had suggested was actually so, she would have known about this. But _I didn't think she did_. Her reactions were perfectly natural; she was frightened for her younger brother, whom she loved. The surprise and fear seemed genuine, and I did not think anyone could be that good an actor.

Ginny stared at her daughter. "It's true," she said, in a voice dead with despair. "He's gone. And who else could have taken him? You have to save him, _please_. You have to save my boy!" She looked straight at me, as if willing me to forget all of the harsh words that had passed between us, willing me to be compassionate and come to her rescue. It reminded me of Hermione's words: _Are you her knight-gallant?_ It seemed that I was expected to be, even now, because she had come here to appeal to _me_ , not Draco or anyone else.

Much as I wished that I could leave well alone, the fact remained that I couldn't. It wasn't just Ginny who expected me to help, it was Charity, too. I cared about her, and she cared about Andrew. So I would have to go and rescue the boy. Not alone, of course; I was not foolish enough for that. I would contact Terry and, if at all possible, Remus Lupin as well. "How long ago was he taken?" I asked. Draco stirred with interest also, and I knew that I would have his help on this mission as well. "And how do you know that he actually was _taken?"_ It was a question I would rather not ask, but I had to.

"So you think my son would just _run away?"_ Ginny asked, scornfully, and I could see that the question had insulted her. Still, Terry would've been annoyed if I hadn't asked it. Runaways were one thing, but kidnappings were quite another. "He wouldn't! And _I know_ he was taken, because I heard it happen. He screamed, once, but by the time I got out into the garden, he was gone." She let out a quiet, broken sob. "Damn Smith! Hasn't he ruined my life enough? He corrupted my husband! Why steal my son? What do they want with him?"

I averted my eyes from hers; I couldn't look at her, not when I _knew_ – or suspected – why Andrew had been taken. It was a terrible fate, and we might well get there too late to save him from it. "There is something," I began, hesitantly. Ginny's gaze swung back to me, her eyes shining, imploring me silently to tell her the truth. I couldn't. "But – it – I can't say. It might not be that. Smith might be holding him to ransom. He is the son of Harry Potter, after all." Better to let her think that she might get her son back alive and in the same condition that he had been in when he was taken.

"But you don't think that, really," Ginny said, flatly, looking at me with pain and disappointment in her eyes. There was surprise there, too; I did not normally lie to her. But much had changed in the past few months. I was free of my obsession with her. Something that had once linked us was now broken – it had been fraying for years, but had finally snapped the night we arrested Macmillan. Now I did not have to please her; I was free to please myself. It still hurt slightly to see her turn away from me, but Charity's obvious approval made that bearable.

I stood up. "It doesn't matter what I think," I said. "Their reason for taking him doesn't change the fact that we need to get him back." Ginny nodded, as though relieved that I'd decided to help her. In reality, there had been no decision to make; I was a Reserve Auror, and as such I was obliged to help her. It wasn't any sort of heroism – it was my duty. The fact that Charity would be distraught if anything happened to her little brother was, of course, a consideration, but it was not the main reason for my actions.

Slipping seamlessly into a commanding role, I snapped out orders to the others. "Charity – can you stay here and make sure your mother's alright?" She nodded obligingly; she was one Gryffindor who had no desire to put herself in harm's way. "Draco and I are going to get Terry and Remus, and we may be some time. I doubt you'll need to keep an eye on Dorado; he's not about to sneak out after us and try to get involved in the battle." I looked over at my friend's son. "Are you?"

He snorted. "I should say not.  I doubt I'd be much help anyway."  It didn't seem to hurt him to say that; he was far more rational than was usual for his age, and knew that he would not be needed on a mission of such importance, even were he allowed to go.  Despite his apparent scorn, the book he had been reading when Ginny arrived lay forgotten on the arm of his chair.  That he had stopped reading it showed that the seriousness of the situation had not escaped him.

Draco smiled briefly and indulgently at his son. He stopped beside Dorado's chair and ruffled the ice-blond hair before joining me over by the fireplace. "Ready?"  His eyes shone with the anticipation of the hunt.  I nodded, knowing that I was once again seeing the side of my friend that I had last seen during the final days of the War. He was a fighter, as tough as any Gryffindor and twice as resourceful. There were few things that frightened Draco now, though he was much more easily provoked to anger than I was. Together, we would be as we always had been before – unstoppable.

I plunged my hand into the bowl of powder, cast it into the fire, and called out, "The Ministry of Magic!" The green flames shot up in front of me, and I stepped into them and whirled away, eventually coming to a stop in the Atrium at the Ministry. I didn't wait for Draco, but rather ran across the hall to the security desk. The guard looked up at me and half-raised his wand, as if unsure as to whether I was a threat. I almost rolled my eyes – if I'd been an attacker, he wouldn't have been able to stop me like that.

I skidded to a halt in front of him. "Reserve Auror Theodore Nott reporting in," I panted, as Draco's footsteps clattered across the Atrium behind me.  "We have a state of emergency.  I request the immediate presence of my superior Auror, Terry Boot, and Remus Lupin of the Wolf Squad. Any other back-up would also be welcome." The man stared at me for a moment, and then saluted smoothly and turned to an instrument behind him to summon the others. All we could do now was wait for them to respond.

It did not take long. Terry arrived first with a junior, a young man whom I didn't recognise. He had the light of combat in his eyes, and it was suddenly obvious that I was facing one of the finest members of the Auror Office.  "What's the emergency, Theodore?"  His tone suggested that he'd been _waiting_ for something to happen.  Which, on reflection, he must have been; the speed of his response told me that he had already been at the Ministry, rather than spending Christmas Eve with his family.

Though I wanted to tell him everything, common sense made me wait. "Not now," I said. "We're still waiting on Remus. Once he's here – hopefully with his wolf squad – I'll tell everyone what's happened. There's no point in saying it more than once."

He grimaced, but nodded all the same.  "That sounds sensible enough." Then he frowned. "But – why the wolf squad? Is it about the worg?" His voice was suddenly tinged with fear, and I realised that even the people in charge of law enforcement had never come into contact with such a creature before. The mere mention of the worg had shocked the Aurors and set the werewolf rights movement back by several years. While Remus had been staying at Hogwarts, he had told me that even he was looking into people's eyes and seeing fear, distrust and suspicion.

"It could be," I said. "I hope not, really I do, but it points that way." And it did; of all the people in our year, none had disliked Harry more than Zacharias Smith. No one who had ever seen Harry and Draco interact while at school would have believed that – but it was true. Though he would never admit it, I was fairly sure that Draco had _enjoyed_ the rivalry between them, and Harry certainly hadn't seemed to mind much, except when it interfered with his plans for saving people.

But Zacharias Smith had blamed Harry for Cedric's death, back in fourth year. He'd been close to Diggory, fairly worshipped the older boy, and when Harry had refused to tell him how his hero had died, he had been angry. I had seen him a few times watching Harry as though he hated him, but I had always thought of it as jealousy, or bitterness that his ideas – which were never practical – had been disregarded again. I knew better now. What I had seen in Smith's eyes _was_ hatred; he had hated Harry simply because he was alive. So in his twisted mind, it would be a perfect revenge to ruin the life of Harry's son.

And if Smith had done what I feared he had done, Andrew's life would be ruined. Suddenly my urgency seemed irrational, my presence here futile. If the reason for the abduction was to infect Harry's son with lycanthropy, it would have been done already. There was no need to hurry; there was no rescue to be accomplished. If Smith desired that Andrew's life be ruined, he was hardly about to kill him. It would not matter one bit if we found the boy in one hour or ten. The only reason left for finding him at all was so that he could not be used against us.

I had just reached this discouraging conclusion when Remus arrived. He looked worriedly at the small gathering. Fear was written in the lines of his face; he knew that I would not have come here if it was not a real emergency. I was known to him as I was known to most of the people at the Ministry – as a sensible and resourceful fighter. Much as he would like to think it might be a false alarm, my presence had stripped away any such comforting possibilities. Neither I nor Draco had ever been known to overreact.

"If you've called out the wolf squad, it must be about the worg," he said, immediately. "My team are on their way, but while we're waiting, you can tell me what's happened to get you in such a state on Christmas Eve. Surely nothing less than a national emergency would drag you away from Whitethorns."

"You might call it that." I was amazed by how steady my voice sounded. "Andrew Potter's been kidnapped. And if I tell you that I'm afraid that it might be a job for the wolf squad – I think you can work out what I think for yourself." It seemed that he could; the colour drained away from his face with alarming rapidity. I knew why; he'd been a well-loved uncle to Harry, and still saw the man's son as his responsibility.  He was also the only one of us who truly understood or appreciated the curse with which the boy might be afflicted. It was little wonder that Remus looked sickened.

"We need to find where they're holding him." Terry spoke decisively, as always the voice of command. "Until we get there and find out what's happened to him, I don't think we should be jumping to any conclusions." His admonition was perfunctory; I knew that he believed that I was right. It was the only likely explanation, but, as he had pointed out, our work had to be based on evidence, not conjecture. Conjecture was pointless and often damaging, as was my speculation after Snape's words in the graveyard. I knew from the evidence of my past experience that it was foolish to suspect Draco, but the damage was done – the doubt was there, as much as I tried to ignore it.

Remus spoke up in the quiet yet commanding voice he invariably used. "If we go to the place he was taken from, I ought to be able to pick up the scent." This had been another reason for my decision to alert Remus; who needed tracking dogs when they had the razor keen nose of a werewolf at their disposal? "I suppose he was taken from home. We can go as soon as my Aurors arrive – oh, I think that might be them now."

It was. They were not the same wolf squad Aurors I had seen before, but their robes bore the wolf's head emblem. We waited while Remus filled them in. Like most well-trained Aurors, they asked no questions and showed no fear or surprise at the job they had been given. That requirement – that one should not get too involved with cases – was the biggest and most compelling reason I knew for increasing Auror recruitment from Slytherin House. Most of us had been taught from birth to be detached; to allow no emotion to come between us and our ultimate goals. It was a shame that the law enforcers seemed to prefer valour over discretion, compassion over efficacy.

But now was not the time to be bitter. Now was the time to concentrate on the job in hand. I followed Terry to the fireplaces, and we Flooed in silence to the Macmillan residence. It was an ill-fated house, it seemed. Ginny had only just moved back in, so that she could celebrate Christmas in the comfort of her own home. And _this_ was her welcome – to have her son, practically the living image of the dead husband she had loved so much, brutally snatched away from her. It was cruel, and I vowed that I would catch the man who had done it and _make him pay_.

Since Andrew had been taken from the garden, we began our search out there. Why the boy should have been outside when it was only a degree or two above freezing I did not know. It seemed strange, but then it was a long time since I had been a twelve-year-old boy, and I no longer remembered how I had thought or what I had wanted all those years ago. I felt suddenly very old. For a wizard, forty-one was still positively youthful, but my joints were no longer what they were after too much exposure to Cruciatus, and there were many people older than myself with far less experience of life, at least in its darker aspects.

After a few moments, Remus made his report.  "They took him from here, half an hour ago perhaps." Nobody asked how he knew. "There were three of them, and one of them was a worg. I can't say for certain whether he's already been infected." It seemed that he was not restrained by Terry's warning about jumping to conclusions; he was going to tell the truth as he saw it. "I think he was stunned. There aren't any signs of a struggle, and there would be _some_ if he'd been conscious when they grabbed hold of him. It's only to be expected, really; no one in their right mind would imagine they could carry off a child unnoticed _without_ stunning him."

I felt my thoughts stirring suspiciously. "But it didn't go unnoticed," I protested. "He screamed. Ginny said so." If I hadn't been so stupid, I might have seen then the significance of that information. If I hadn't been obtuse, I would have known what was going to happen, and I _might_ – only might – have been able to avert it.

"Then they didn't do as good a job as they might have hoped."  Remus shrugged. "He can't have had time to do anything other than scream. As soon as he made that noise, he was silenced and prevented from resisting. But it was fortunate for us that they bungled it; his mother would probably have taken longer to notice otherwise. And then we'd have had no chance of saving him – if he can still be saved." He was being painfully honest again, and I could see that Terry would prefer it if the werewolf had at least pretended to believe this was an ordinary kidnapping.

The senior Auror looked critically at Remus now. "But can you say where they went?" he asked, urgently. "Do you know where they've taken him? It's all useless if we can't trace them. We can't save Andrew Potter if we don't know where he is!" That much was obvious to all of us; was Terry losing his grip?  It was true that Harry had meant a lot to all of us, and that rescuing his son was a personal as well as a professional goal. But Terry was an Auror, and had been for a long time; he was the last person I would've expected to contravene that unwritten rule of all policing: _don't get too involved_.

"I can," Remus replied, after a short pause that seemed like an eternity. "But only because it's not too far away. Any more than fifty miles, and Apparation is wolf-proof. As it is, I know the general area." His face gave a sudden spasm of horror as a terrible realisation hit him. "No. Better than that. I know the exact place. I could give you map co-ordinates if you like." There was only one place I could think of that would have had inspired such a reaction. Only one place within fifty miles of our current position in deepest Gloucestershire, anyway. "The House in Godric's Hollow," he breathed, sounding as if he was preparing to read a horror story. Which, of course, in a way he was - except this time, the story would be true.

None of us showed quite what we felt about this; the Aurors might as well not have had any feelings on the matter. I knew where the village was; Harry had thought about settling there at one point, but Ginny had vetoed that idea. The only person who might have any idea of what her insistence had meant to Harry was Draco, and he had never told.  Draco had hated Ginny with such heat that it had been impossible to avoid the conclusion that it might have been  _jealousy_ , but if Harry had ever spoken ill of her, Draco had kept that secret faithfully.  He was loyal enough, had cared enough, to take some things to his grave.

It was a mostly Muggle village, Godric's Hollow, though named after its founder, the great Gryffindor himself. So we had to be careful about arriving – Remus described the old Potter residence to us all so that we could hold a picture in our minds on which to concentrate. In practically no time at all, we stood together outside the door that hung eerily on its hinges. The house was a wreck, just as it always had been, but enough still stood to provide the criminals with some little concealment and shelter. That seemed suspiciously convenient; had they perhaps been indulging in a little renovation?

Dismissing such trivial thoughts from my mind, I edged in through the door without touching it. The last thing I wanted was to alert them to my presence by causing anything to creak. Everyone followed me; I knew that it was not a good idea to be the person at the front, but someone had to be. I was nervous, but at the same time confident in my ability to defend myself. But perhaps that confidence was misplaced.

I had barely gone ten paces along the hallway within when I saw a movement in a room off to the side. Without pausing to think, I threw myself to the floor, shouting a warning to the others as I did so. Maybe the warning was insufficient. No sooner had I hit the floor than somebody fell on top of me. Somebody _dead_. No one who has carried a dead body in their arms can forget how terribly unmistakable that weight is. Someone had died because I had ducked – _again_. But awful as that realisation was, it was nothing compared to the emotions that arose in me when the voice of Zacharias Smith emerged gloating from the shadows:

"Good to see that you're still just as good at killing your friends, Theodore." Rage rose up and got stuck in my throat, untouched by guilt; _how dare he_ try to pass the blame for this death on to _me_? He went on, "And even better to see that Aurors still know how to sacrifice their lives in vain." In that moment, genuine grief and horror struck me, causing searing lights to streak across my vision. I knew then – knew absolutely – who had just died. I knew exactly whose life my swift action had lost. And I was completely at a loss as to how we were going to cope without him.


	18. The Dogs of War

I shrugged my way out from under the deadweight, hatred burning in my heart. There was anger there too, and that was strange; in such life-threatening moments my mind was usually my own. But then my friend was dead and my enemy was laughing – there were few who could have resisted the incitement to anger. Smith had an awful, somewhat contemptuous smile on his face, his eyes glowing with a sick satisfaction that only supported my belief that he was not mad, but rather something far worse, far more disturbing. I wanted to kill him. At that moment, I honestly believed that he deserved to die.

"If only you hadn't ducked, Theodore."  He tried to sound regretful, but I couldn't imagine that it was true. My lightning reflexes – the reason I was still alive – were well known in certain circles, and he'd had first hand experience of them that day in the warehouse. No; he must have been expecting me to duck, which meant that he'd meant to kill the person who was dead. There was no reason for me to blame myself; Smith had chosen strategy over trying to hurt me – if he'd wanted simply to cause me pain, he would've killed Draco. Terry was – _had been_ – the person most dangerous to him, so he thought, and therefore the logical target.

"It wasn't a conscious decision," I retorted, sharply. That was true. I could no more have stayed upright in the path of that acid green beam than I could have held my hand steady in an open flame. "And it was you who cast the spell.' Unspoken in that last comment – _don't blame me for things that are your fault, monster._ The hatred was all-consuming.  I wanted to see him suffer.  He couldn't know emotional pain as I did, as I was suffering looking down at the body of a person I had liked and cared for. But he _could_ know physical pain, physical suffering, and I alone was able and willing to give it to him.

_Should I?_ The question, like so much of my sense at that moment, was brushed away thoughtlessly. I wanted to make him suffer; make him _pay_ for what he had done. I knew how, none better. His smiling, sneering mask infuriated me, and I wanted not just to wipe that smile from his face but to _obliterate_ that face forever. Fury seized me. My wand, which I had not lost as I had fallen, was clutched in my hand so tightly that the knuckles were white. The spell was there, in my mind, and it did not need to be spoken for its effects to be felt. I felt the power leave me, watched it on its course, and saw Smith's face contort in disbelief and horror as it hit him.

He stiffened first, and then screamed and collapsed to his knees, falling backwards into the room from which he had come. I watched, hungrily, not _enjoying_ his pain exactly but needing it somehow. It was horrible to watch, his twitching limbs and his eyes rolled back into his head, but he _deserved_ it. He thrashed a little. Pain. Yes – more pain. Another flick of my wand made the spell stronger, and the convulsions became stronger, more regular. He could die so easily this way, but that would be too easy, wouldn't it?  Let him _suffer_ first. A horrible, gurgling cry nearly broke my resolve, almost made me pity him and stop, but I was too far gone for that. I knew that what I did was _right_ , and that was enough for me.

Suddenly something hard and cold connected with my cheek. The spell broke, and I had to catch my wand before it shot out of my hand. I looked around and saw Draco, his eyes seeming sad and angry at the same time, his arms folded, standing in front of me. "Theo." The word was a reproach, and I knew then that he had hit me. He had stopped me. Before I could say anything, he cut across me. "We need him alive."  He spoke sharply, but not without understanding.  "That sort of thing doesn't do _you_ any good, either.' Then he moved over towards Smith, who still lay where he had fallen, and bound his wrists together with ropes that sprung from the end of his wand. He dragged our prisoner further into the room without any protest, and we followed, keeping an eye open for any sign of another surprise attack.

I was still angry, still murderous, standing apart from the obviously horrified Aurors, but then Draco came over to me and said, "This isn't you, Theo. You don'tgive in to the Dark Arts." It was as if some bewitchment had broken when I heard those words. All of the shame and horror that my anger had not let me feel came crashing back, and I sighed heavily and closed my eyes. How could I have done such a thing? What sort of Slytherin was I? And far more importantly – what would Terry have thought of me? I knew the answer to that, much as I hated to admit it: _he'd be disgusted; you know he would._

One of the Aurors said, quietly, "That – that wasn't Cruciatus, was it?" I looked at him. He was a young man, and had probably never seen the Unforgivable in action. That hadn't been it. There are ways and means of inflicting severe pain that don't involve risking instant life imprisonment. My grandfather had always told me that the Unforgivables were used by those with no imagination. So many spells exist to restrict the will, to cause the blood to sing with pain, or to snuff out life altogether. The Unforgivables are just the easiest, just the best-known. I had always kept faith with my grandfather's teaching, and I would not have betrayed him by using Cruciatus now.

I didn't explain all of that. "No," I said, shortly. "Did you think I would?"  He looked away, but a quick glimpse of his face told me that he had not been sure. Had I looked so much like a monster, or was he simply prejudiced against my House and my family? I turned my attention back to Smith, who had stopped twitching and had opened his eyes. He frightened me still. He should have looked hopeless and defeated, but his smile was returning, almost undiminished. We had beaten him, captured him and bound him, but he still had something left, some trick up his robe sleeve, and I dreaded to think what that might be.

His cold eyes flicked around, seemingly amused. "So, you have finally caught me," he said, his voice wavering only slightly. "What do you want from me?" He was sneering, as though he was the captor and we were the prisoners.

Draco didn't allow a little thing like that to deter him. "We don't want you, Smith."  His voice was soft and dangerous.  I believed that he was angry about Terry, somewhere under the surface, but it could not be easily seen. For once, I was the one who had lost my head; Draco was as calm and lucid as could be, though I could see that his wand hand shook a little. "We want Viper. If you can help us with that, we could reach some arrangement." He didn't offer freedom. That was not something we had the power to grant, and Smith wouldn't believe such an empty promise.

Smith laughed. It was too loud, almost mad, and it was slightly choked after his short torture, but it was still a laugh, and it was still maddening. How he could laugh so openly before the body of a man he had killed, I had no idea. But I did know something else. The laugh gave it away, and I wondered how I had been so blind as to have not seen it before. I had always known. Snape had practically _told_ me the answer. Nothing had quite made sense before, but now everything slotted into place and I knew the truth. It didn't comfort me. It just made everything worse.

"Perhaps I should have let Theodore kill you," Draco spat, his anger finally getting the better of him. He had always hated being laughed at.

Smith laughed all the harder, his not-quite-mad eyes resting on me curiously, as if wondering how I of all people had managed to get the better of him. It seemed that there was some respect there as well as curiosity. Perhaps it was justified. After all, I knew what he was, and it seemed that nobody else did yet. As soon as he stopped laughing, I caught his eye, and in a flat voice said, "You invented Viper, didn't you?" Draco cursed and Remus gasped, but I could tell that what I had said made sense to them.  "There's no such person.  It's all you.  It's always only been you." Zacharias Smith, the man of the headlines, the one everybody knew – how could I have ever been so _stupid?_

"That is... mostly right, at any rate.' Smith gave what for him was almost an amiable smile.  "There is a 'Viper', I suppose, if that's what you want to call him.  The person who wore those robes when I needed him to play the part."  He bowed to Remus in a mockery of pureblood courtesy.  "You'd know him best, I believe.  Alpha."  His use of Remus' formal title was accompanied by a sneer and a maddening laugh.  I couldn't believe how much Smith was still calling the shots, even bound and apparently defeated. The werewolf growled at him, baring his teeth like the beast he sometimes was. It seemed that evil brought out the worst in us all – drawing to the surface what was Dark in me and what was bestial in Remus.

"The worg," he said. "He is coming."  It was not a question; I imagined that Remus would be able to feel the other werewolf's presence.

Smith shrugged. "Perhaps." Then he smiled. "He may bring friends. The pack is hungry. You wanted Viper; you may get more than you bargained for."

"The pack?" There was only one thing that could mean. "There are others?" Smith only nodded, inclining his head with that same slight smile on his lips. "You've been collecting." The smile broadened slightly. "I suppose – what about Andrew Potter?"

This time the reply came with a small, chilling chuckle. "The child of the saviour?" Smith's voice was scornful. "Nothing special, that one. It was easy. _Muggle_ children have put up more of a fight than he did. Went down as quick as anything, not a spell fired, not a word uttered. It couldn't have been simpler. Fortune favours the bold, sometimes." As an afterthought, he added, "He is a bit old, perhaps, but he'll run with the pack soon enough." The very thought of a 'pack' was frightening.  Were they all worgs?  Could he command any and all of them?  Almost regretfully, he murmured, "I suppose that Ginny will be very angry." In an odd way, he sounded as though he relished the thought.

Thin-lipped and tense, Remus said, "The pack approaches."  A howl proved the truth of his words; it was very close, frighteningly so. I shivered. One worg was bad enough – if there were more than one, how would we ever escape alive, let alone bring Smith to justice? The answer was simple: it would be impossible. _I should have killed him while I had the chance._ Left to myself, I would have. Yet there was nothing stopping any of us from striking him down now; he was still bound, still technically helpless. No one moved to hurt him. It seemed that we were all still afraid of him, though he was in our power.

And then the wolves began to pour in from outside. There were not really so very many of them – it just seemed that way. Remus growled throatily and transformed, the large silver wolf thrusting himself defensively between us and the pack. I was afraid for him; these others were all large and robust, with thick black coats, savagely sharp teeth and glowing red eyes. It is the eyes that distinguish a worg from an alpha, and those eyes are the reason that worgs are considered demon-possessed in wizard mythology. I found it easy to believe these creatures were hosts to demons – or, at least, easier than I found it to believe that they were children, however corrupted.

As we watched, most of the worgs transformed back into human form, as if to prevent any thoughts of demon wolves from taking hold. They were so young, most of them, and yet they none of them looked human. Animals who had learnt to take human shapes – that was what they seemed to be. Once they stood still, I could see that there were six of them, not the never-ending sea of blackness they had seemed to be before. The largest and most powerful did not transform, but stayed as a wolf, hackles raised and growling threateningly at Remus. I knew – I did not have to be told – that this was _the_ worg. This was 'Viper'.

Smith smiled again, darkly. "You wished to speak to Viper," he began, mockingly. "He is here, but I do not think that he will listen, or answer your questions, either." He looked straight at the worg, making direct eye contact with the hellish creature. "These people have come to see you, pet," he said, slowly, as though he believed the worg could understand him. Perhaps it could, but I saw no spark of human intelligence in those demonic eyes. I wished I could say the same for Smith; as soon as he saw he had the worg's attention – and that we all were distracted by the beast – he barked the order, "Kill them."

The worg needed no second bidding. It made to strike at me, but Remus threw his body in front of the attacking force and repelled it with a vicious snapping of razor-sharp teeth. Viper snarled, but Remus simply sat on his haunches and turned his face aside from the worg, a challenge sign if ever there was one. By averting his eyes from Viper, he was showing that he felt no need to be vigilant – he implied that the worg presented no threat to him. Perhaps one worg did not. Remus as a wolf was a strong creature himself, and he had years of wisdom and cunning that Viper could not match. But there were too many of them. The alpha would surely be overwhelmed eventually, and then where would we all be?

The two wolves joined battle, Viper and Remus circling one another and looking for a time to strike. But the other worgs did not move; they stood in their human forms watching the fight. Perhaps they were so sure of the outcome that they thought they did not need to join in. After all, Viper was larger than Remus, if only slightly. But I believed that Remus' intelligence would win out. It had to. If it did not, what did that say about the world, if brute strength could triumph over brainwork? I flinched as Viper's teeth bit into Remus' shoulder, and the alpha yelped. Even supposing he won, what would be the cost of victory? Would the other worgs attack in turn until Remus finally fell?

As Remus threw the younger wolf off and began to force Viper backwards towards one of the walls, I noticed Draco sidling over towards me. I didn't know why he was moving so subtly – he could not fear the bound and disarmed Smith, and all of the worgs were distracted by the battle taking place. But then, he had always had a taste for drama, however clichéd. When he reached me, he said, very quietly, "Have you got a knife?" That surprised me. A knife? What good would that do against six strong and vicious werewolves who had lost almost all sense of their humanity?

"No," I whispered back. "What do you think – that I carry a knife tucked in my boot or something?" He shrugged, but I could see his disappointment. "Why? What do you want it for?"

He sighed. "And I thought you were clever, Theo."  I rolled my eyes. How he managed to sound so disparaging in a barely audible whisper, I didn't know. "It's simple – cut off the head of the snake and the body stops wriggling. I'm willing to bet that if we kill Smith, the worgs will have lost their leader. They'll stop attacking and obey Remus. I know it would be better to take Smith alive, but I don't think we have a choice. Unless he dies, we won't escape." I didn't say that he ought to have let me kill him. I was too preoccupied with the details of his plan.

"You'd kill a man in our power? A man with his wrists bound, unable to defend himself?"

Draco snorted. "You've hung round with Gryffindors for so long that you've become one," he replied, and I was Slytherin enough for the insult to sting. "How is it different to kill a man like that than to torture him? And do you really think that Smith's in _our_ power, anyway?" I felt a twinge of guilt for my actions, but I began to see what Draco meant. I'd been a fool, forgetting the principles that had kept us alive and made us successful during the war. Scruples were only useful if they didn't endanger your survival. In this case, being too 'honourable' to kill Smith could only lead to our deaths. There was no choice. Draco was right. We had to do it.

A thought struck me. "Terry," I breathed. My voice broke, the pain of his death hitting me again as I spoke his name. "He always spoke about being prepared for anything. Maybe I can find something we can use if I – search his belt and his pockets." I felt awful for even proposing to loot a friend's body, but this was life or death. Draco nodded. He didn't like the idea any more than I did, but we both knew what was necessary. That was what had always separated us from the truly 'good' people, the 'real' Light wizards; we were prepared to do whatever needed to be done, however unsavoury.

I slipped from the room quietly, not wanting to draw the attentions of any of the worgs. There was little chance of that; they were all absorbed in the fight, like children at a Quidditch game. Terry's body lay where it had fallen in the hallway of the house. Swallowing the lump in my throat I crouched beside him and felt at his belt for the telltale smoothness of a knife handle. I didn't find one, but I did find something that I recognised as a gun. I took it out of the belt and put it on the floor; it would do as a last resort, though I had no idea how to make it work.

There was nothing useful in his pockets. I was beginning to get desperate. Then, as I opened his outer robe to search beneath it, I heard the unmistakeable sound of something metallic hitting the floor. It was a small red thing, rounded at the edges and rather heavy. I wouldn't have looked at it, except that it appeared to have slits containing silver-coloured strips of metal. I pulled them out and looked at them: a corkscrew, a hoof pick, a pair of scissors, a bottle opener, a small file… and three knife blades of different sizes. I chose the largest and forced it as far open as it would go. It was sharp; I tested it out on my finger and found that it drew blood. I hoped it would be enough.

As quickly as I could, I brought it back to Draco. I was glad I had done so, glad he had had the idea, because when I got back the fight had taken a turn for the worse. Remus was beating Viper back, but the other worgs had transformed and were panting slightly, the light of combat in their reddened eyes, each ready to take over when their pack-brother was finally forced to give in. Draco was watching with an expression of near-horror. I nudged him in the side and showed him the weapon. He smiled. "Swiss Army knife," he said. "Better than nothing, as long as it's sharp."

I held up my bleeding hand. "It's sharp," I said, quietly. "I tested it already. Just take it and finish him. This has gone on long enough." He nodded and took the knife from me. "Luck," I added, suddenly, and Draco smiled. It was the last word we would say to one another before entering battle, years ago during the war. _Luck_ – good luck to us, and bad luck to the enemy. I hoped that hearing it would fill him with that old confidence and make his aim true. Looking at Remus and the ravening worgs, it certainly needed to be.

And then he was gone from my side, taking the knife with him. He'd always been able to move quickly and silently. The next time I saw him, he was standing behind Smith. Had our enemy noticed him at all? It didn't seem as if the Auror who was nervously watching our so-called prisoner had seen him coming, so perhaps the condemned man had not seen either. I caught Draco's eyes in the instant before he struck, and so I knew what he felt as the knife went in. Not triumph or anger or even – unusually – vindictiveness, but _sorrow_. It is not, after all, an easy thing to kill with one's own hands a man who was once a brother-in-arms.

Smith died a quicker and easier death than he deserved. Of that I was certain. I watched the knife bite at the unmarked paleness of his throat, and then I had to look away. The blood spilled, and the worgs, their noses keener than those of humans, froze suddenly and turned to look for the source of the bleeding. For a moment I thought that they would attack Draco as he stood there behind the dying Smith, holding a bloodied knife in his hands. But they did not. It seemed that they _feared_ him, incredible as that seemed. He stepped towards them, and they backed away hurriedly, cowards all.

Draco stopped in the middle of the room, between the worgs and Remus, who was panting and a little worn out. He held up the knife soaked with the blood of a human devil and watched as the first drops hit the floor. And then, in the silence that followed, he said three words: "It is finished."


	19. A Pack of Lies

It wasn't that simple, of course. Nothing ever is.

The first words spoken into the silence that followed Draco's pronouncement came from Terry's junior - a young man, inexperienced in the fight against evil. "Why did you do that?" he asked, a little shakily, blanching at the sight of so much blood. Not so do wizards usually kill one another; it was no surprise to me that Terry had not taken this man to the scene of Ron Weasley's murder. "Why use a knife when we have wands?" I wondered if he would have preferred the Killing Curse, in all its cold inhumanity, to the slicing of a blade and the shedding of blood. "And - for that matter - why kill him at all? He was a prisoner!"

Draco scowled, irritated by what he saw as stupidity. "If you think Smith was truly a prisoner, then I despair for the Auror Corps," he said, scathingly. "And as for the method - they're _animals_. They wouldn't have understood that he was dead without seeing his blood spilled. A wolf's mind can't grasp what magic is; how would they have realised that coloured lights could kill their master?" Of course, that wasn't quite true - they'd have known that he was dead, but had no idea why or how. "Besides, you heard what Smith said. Some of them were Muggles, even when they were human. How would they ever have understood what a spell did? No; it had to be the way I did it. Nothing else would have worked."

I added, softly, "A wand is no defence against a worg anyway." The young Auror swung around to look at me, eyes wide, hand shaking as he realised how helpless he really was in the face of the creatures. "Most spells just bounce off their thick hides. They're creatures of magic, reinforced against magic. That's why people used to think they were demons - why some superstitious wizards still do. After all, what could deflect a Killing Curse but the presence of a powerful evil spirit?" Even Draco looked alarmed at this, and I realised that my friend had not known that when he asked for the knife. He did not seem happy with the realisation that he was standing before some half dozen vile beasts, with nothing more than a Swiss Army blade to defend him against the curse of lycanthropy.

Remus had known, of course. He was everything a worg was, and more besides. His control over the inner wolf had been hard won, but he was still human, which was something the worgs were not quite. I wondered at that; worgs became what they were by abandoning their humanity to the beast within, and yet an alpha gained much the same powers by subjugating the wolf to the service of their human intellect. One was controlled by the beast, the other was in perfect control at all times - it looked so similar from the outside, but the difference as seen from within was staggering.

So, naturally, Remus understood them as none of us - not even his own wolf squad - could ever hope to, and it was he who took control when the worgs regained their senses and began to growl at us, primitive animalistic thoughts of vengeance and conquest taking hold in their minds. He regained his proper form as quickly as blinking, and immediately moved to place himself as a barrier between the worgs and we humans. "You will not attack," he said, and it was no faint hope but a definite command. Red eyes fixed on him, widened in something that might have been surprise. "I am Alpha, and you will obey."

No one had ever given them orders before save for Smith, I could tell that much just from looking at them. If I had locked eyes with one of them, I might have been able to tell more - but who knew what fate might befall one foolish enough to soul-gaze with a demon? The very thought made me shudder, and I kept my eyes carefully averted, lest I make accidental contact and learn things I would much rather not know.

But they weren't demons, not really; they were just children, as horrifying as that thought might be. The tide of black fur receded as the worgs transformed one by one back into their original forms. None of them looked quite right as humans, but the one that was most horrific was Viper himself. He was young - probably about thirteen or fourteen years old, at the very most - but he looked frighteningly feral. His eyes were amber, like a wolf's, and furiously bloodshot, and his canine teeth were unnaturally elongated and yellow with old stains. He bared them at us, defiantly, while growling at an uncomfortably low pitch.

In broken English, he spat out an accusation. "You killed pack leader." The terrible eyes fixed on Draco, who looked away hurriedly. Though he had defended himself against the Auror, my friend did not seem able to muster words to answer this poor, malformed child.

It was Remus who responded - not surprising, since I felt that he was the only one of us who had any sort of grasp on what was going on. He put a hand on Viper's shoulder in an almost kindly gesture, and spoke to him in the same awkwardly fragmented manner: "Pack leader had to die. He was mad. Rabid. For the good of the pack, yes?" Gesturing around at us, he added, "These people wolf-friends. Want to help." I appreciated that; Remus's first instinct was to protect us, and convincing the worgs that we meant them no harm was the best - perhaps the only - way that could be done.

Viper looked up at Remus, uncertainly. "The good - of the pack? To have new leader?" He shook his head vigorously and sank to his haunches, letting out a barely human howl of despair. The young Auror started and raised his wand, but I waved at him to stand down; he could do nothing but antagonise the wolf-child, which was the last thing we wanted. Viper was muttering to himself. I couldn't make out any words; I didn't even know if there _were_ any words. After a moment, he raised his head and declared, "Leader was wolf-sire. I leader now." He jutted out his chin, looking for all the world like any other rebellious teenager, defying the only thing he recognised as an authority - Remus.

Then I realised what his words meant, broken as they were, and I felt sick. This boy, Viper, was Zacharias Smith's own _son_? How insane must he have been, to inflict such a fate upon his own flesh and blood? I couldn't fathom what sort of person would do that - or what sort of pure-blood would visit such sacrilege upon his own bloodline. What could he have hoped to gain that could possibly make up for that? I felt a rush of compassion for the child Viper had once been; I had thought that _my_ father had betrayed me, but that was nothing at all compared with what the young Smith's had done to him.

Remus looked similarly appalled. "He was - your father? I - what happened?" Viper stared at him, his eyes devoid of understanding. "I mean - God, this is difficult - how you become wolf? When? Leader make you?"

"Become wolf?" Viper looked like he did not quite grasp the concept. "Was always this way. Since young." He shivered a little. "Cold." As well he might be, without his thick fur coat. He wrapped his arms around his knees and pulled them to his chest, huddling up in human form rather than changing back. I almost wished he had; he looked too much like a normal child for my peace of mind. Suddenly he spoke, more confidently than before. "Was a cold night. Just a cub. Man-cub only, then. Wolf bite. Sire was fear, sad. Then rage. He made me - wolf. True wolf. Later he found me pack." He was struggling to find the words, I could see that, and I wondered exactly how young he had been when he had lost his humanity.

Despite his difficulty in speaking, I understood what he meant well enough. It made Smith slightly less of a monster - only slightly, since surely 'he found me pack' could only mean that all of the _other_ children had been infected at his will. He had not deliberately destroyed his own child, but that hardly exonerated him, just made him easier to understand. Perhaps his bitterness at the fate of his son had made Smith what he was, had driven him over the edge. I saw only too well how that could happen; he would hardly have been the first to go mad with rage over the injustice of our world. It wasn't an excuse for what he'd done, just a reason. But then, why did I expect there to be a logical reason for everything anyway? I knew what Smith had been and what he had done. Why not leave it at that? Where did it come from, this all-consuming urge to know _why_?

"Your pack..." Remus looked around at them, children all, with a pained expression. "You made them, yes? Leader finds, you bite." Viper didn't look up and wouldn't meet Remus's eyes, nor look at any of the others. After a long silence, he nodded, wordlessly. I'd known what must have happened, logically speaking. What else would Smith have done but use the werewolf he already had to hand? Still, it was chilling to see the truth confirmed. To know that Smith had used his son so thoroughly; not just as a weapon, but to make still more child-weapons. I'd seen evil close up before, but this... I did not have words for this.

All this time, we'd all been watching Remus and Viper, not daring to interrupt for fear of what might happen. The worgs saw Viper as their leader and Remus as ours, and were likewise waiting for the outcome of this strange battle that was so different from anything they'd seen before. Wolves didn't fight with words, but with fangs and claws; most of them had understood very little of what had passed since Draco had slit Smith's throat. So now, when Draco spoke, the children who were wolves jumped at the sound of his voice, and watched him warily. But all he said was, "What was your name? Not Viper. Your real name." For a moment I wondered why - but then, this child was not so far from Dorado's age, and perhaps Draco felt uncomfortable still treating him as an enemy.

The boy's strange eyes settled on Draco, and though my friend seemed a little shaken by them, he did not look away or back down. There was a silence, and I had almost decided that Viper either did not remember or would not tell, when a small voice said, "Fairfax." He moved his shoulders as if trying to shrug, before adding, "Not after cold night. Viper now. Pack leader said." But the still warm corpse of his father, his pack leader, lay now at his feet. Whatever Smith had wanted for his son, it didn't matter anymore. There was no need for Viper to exist now. Fairfax Smith was free, for whatever good that might do him.

"Fairfax," Draco repeated, in the same very matter-of-fact tone. He might have been making introductions at a society ball, rather than talking to a feral child in the ruins of a national monument. "A good name. You should use it." Viper - Fairfax - shook his head, less in denial than in confusion. It was too much for him to follow, I thought, that a human should talk to him. The child thought of himself as an animal. And while he could relate to Remus as being like him, he knew very well that Draco was something different. Realising that Smith must have always treated the boy as less than human made me angry enough to wish that the madman was still alive to be tortured.

Remus turned to Draco and murmured, "One thing at a time." Then, to Fairfax, he added, "When human, have human name. Remus." He pointed at himself. "Wolf has wolf name. Moony." There was a glimmer of understanding in the child's amber eyes. "You will learn more. How to be human. Not only wolf. You are both." That was a novel concept to him, I could tell. Unlike many worgs, he had never rejected his humanity; it had been denied him, and he had lost himself in his wolf side because he had never had another choice. Did that mean there was still hope for him? For the others? I wasn't sure, but there was enough of a chance that I held off on trying to figure out how to put bullets through their skulls.

It was then, thinking about the other werewolf children, that I suddenly remembered why we were here. Not to catch Smith - that had not been why we had come, although the death of the Hufflepuff traitor was at least something we could salvage from the situation. I remembered Ginny's fear and desperation, and felt terrible that I could ever have forgotten. "Andrew," I said, quietly. Remus nodded, his face grim. I thought back over Smith's gloating words; what exactly had he said about Harry's son? Had he been bitten already? There had been no time to mould him into a worg - I had no idea how long that would take, but it would surely be months, if not years. But it would take only seconds to make him a werewolf.

"Fairfax." Remus crouched down before the huddled child and put a hand under his chin, gently forcing eye contact. "Leader brought new pack member today. Didn't he?" Fairfax jerked his head a little, but didn't manage to shake Remus's grip. It seemed as though there was a wolfish power struggle going on under the surface of their interactions, which didn't surprise me in the least. After a moment or so, Fairfax gave a grudging nod, and Remus smiled. "Good. Where? You show me." It wasn't a suggestion.

For his part, the wolf-boy lost no time in jumping to his feet and heading towards the door of the room. Remus went with him - and I exchanged a wordless look with Draco before following, leaving my friend alone with the worgs and the Aurors. I wasn't worried for them; I very much doubted that the alpha werewolf would have left the room if he had thought that the troubled children posed any further threat. Without Smith or Viper - Fairfax - to give them commands, they would do nothing. Not to mention that they were all still terrified of Draco. I had to smile at the irony; Draco had been feared for many reasons over the years, but never for his skill with Muggle weaponry.

We didn't have far to go; Fairfax led us into a small room at the back of the house, where the ceiling was mostly intact and the furnishings were hardly rotted at all. And then I saw him. On a mildewed divan, pushed haphazardly against one of the stained walls, lay the small crumpled figure of a boy with scruffy dark hair. It could only be Andrew. From the doorway I couldn't see if he was breathing, but I trusted Smith's cruelty enough to know that he would be. But still, it wouldn't hurt to make sure - and there were other things that I needed to find out, even though I dreaded doing so.

I crossed the room and bent over the still form, looking for any sign of injury. He was warm and breathing, but unconscious - probably some sort of magical sleep, as he did not stir at all when I placed a gentle hand on his forehead, nor when I moved him onto his back, the better to examine him for wounds. At first, I thought that there were none, that he had been spared by Smith's untimely and unexpected demise. It was only when I took off the oversized robe he was wearing that I noticed it - a long, uneven gash across his lower left arm, unmistakably caused by the fangs of some beast. I groaned; it was unlikely I would have to look far to find the _animal_ who had done this to him.

Remus, drawn by the noise, looked over my shoulder at the deep marks on Andrew's arm and growled. I pulled away from him and the child both; I couldn't stand to look anymore, nor to be near the werewolf. _Animals_. All of them, animals. Even Remus - he knew how to pretend to be human, but he wasn't, really. He snarled like a beast when his emotions took hold of him - he didn't _think_ like a wizard - he fought with his _teeth_ \- he... I took a breath and fought against the rising tide of hatred. _No_. Remus was a good man who tried to use the dark powers that had been forced on him for the benefit of others. Fairfax was a scared child who had been cursed by a dark creature and abused by his own father. I couldn't hate either of them. Not without hating what Andrew Potter was now doomed to become.

"We knew it was a possibility," Remus said, gently.

"I know." That didn't make it easier. I pictured Ginny's horror and grief, how she would fall apart when I told her what had happened, and I wished that I could pass that job on to someone else. Anyone else. She would probably blame me; that seemed to be what she did, these days, possibly because the only alternative was to blame herself. I sighed. Whatever I might want, this was something I had to do. Like it or not, Ginny had asked _me_ for help, and so only I could be the one to tell her that no help was possible. "I'll need to tell his mother," I said, reluctantly. "She should still be at Whitethorns - I can Apparate back and break the news. Unless there's a working Floo?"

"There's a fireplace here." Remus nodded towards it. "But, even with the way the Ministry works - or doesn't - I don't imagine it would still be connected to the Network after all these years." He pulled the large robe back over Andrew, either to keep the boy from getting cold in the unheated house, or to cover that terrible wound - I wasn't sure which. Then he came over to me and put a hand on my shoulder. "You're the best person to break it to her, Theodore. I'll let Draco know where you've gone, but he can help me and my team with the worgs and the... casualties." I smiled a little crookedly in spite of myself; Remus was diplomatic, but we both knew that taking Draco to talk to Ginny would be a mistake.

"Should I meet you at the Ministry, once I've spoken to her?" I asked, hoping at least a little for a convenient excuse to escape, should I need one.

Remus flashed me a grin that told me he knew exactly what I meant. "If you like," he said, evenly. "We'll need your testimony, sooner or later. You were witness to the demise of a wanted criminal." _And Terry_ , I thought, grimly. Perhaps Remus remembered that, too, for his face was still and grave now. "For now, go to Whitethorns. Talking to Ginny is the most important thing you can do for us." I nodded, wondering if he had any idea what I'd been thinking only moments before. I regretted those thoughts, now. Perhaps I even felt a little guilty; there was nothing inhuman about Remus. Not really.

He left the room and took Fairfax with him, for which I was grateful. The poor child had no idea what magic was or could do; if he was in the room when I Apparated out, how knew how he would react? I sighed. I didn't know what I was going to say to Ginny. What _could_ I say? How was I supposed to explain this? I had no experience with situations like this; while I had seen many people killed or grievously injured during the war, no one had ever considered it a good idea to send even heroic Slytherins to break bad news to the family. And though as Head of House and Deputy Headmaster I had spoken to many parents about their children, I had never had to tell anyone that their son had been irreparably cursed before. Hogwarts just wasn't that sort of school - or, it wasn't anymore.

 _Enough stalling, Theodore._ I had never run away from unpleasant duties in the past, and I was not about to start now. Steeling myself for an unpleasant conversation, I took a deep breath and vanished into thin air. The wards around Draco's house recognised me as a friend and let me pass, and in less than a second I reappeared in the hallway at Whitethorns, dreading what I had to do and wishing that Apparation took much longer. I remembered how Ginny had reacted to the news of her husband's treachery, and I didn't welcome the idea of another such confrontation with the woman I had once loved.

And then I realised something was wrong. It was far too quiet in the house. I hadn't expected to return to cheer and celebration, but I could hear nothing at all - no hushed whispering, no grim words, no wireless or music. My heart sank into my shoes. Something had happened here. I didn't know what, exactly, but something had happened that neither Ginny nor Charity could defend against. Why had I imagined that this was over, just because we'd dealt with Smith? I knew _better_ than that! The last war hadn't ended the moment Riddle had died. Nothing was ever that simple. This battle wasn't finished yet.

I pushed open the door next to me and went into the drawing-room, dreading what I was going to find. When Draco and I had left, everything here had been peaceful; our families and Ginny had been whole even if not happy. Now, though... the room was empty. I had expected worse than that - had been prepared to see death and devastation. But there was nothing. The fire crackled away to itself, and Dorado's book lay still open on the arm of the same chair. Nothing had changed about the room, but all the people who had been in the room were gone.

Or so I thought at first. Never one to jump to hasty conclusions, I decided to search the drawing-room to see if it held any clues to what had happened here - because surely something had. They should have been _waiting_ for one of us to get back with news; there was no reason for them to do anything else. And besides, Dorado would never _leave_ a book like that, not if he could help it. I stepped away from the door and went deeper into the room, and as I stepped around the low table I saw it - a fan of red hair, spread across the floor. Terror gripped me and I all but ran forwards, forgetting caution in my desperation to find out who it was - and if she was still alive.

I knelt on the floor next to her and brushed the long red hair back from her face. "No," I breathed, unable to believe or accept what I was seeing. It was Charity, and she lay before me, as still as the grave.


	20. To Count the Cost

Being a Slytherin, I did at least check her pulse before sinking into despair or giving voice to wails of grief. It was as well that I did, because what I found was that, incredibly, she was still alive. Unconscious, frozen, immobile - but alive. Relief flooded through me, the rush making me light-headed. If she'd been dead... I didn't want to think about that. It would've killed me, coming so close on the heels of Terry's death. To lose one of my oldest friends and the woman I loved on the same day would've been too much to bear. And I did love her - perhaps it had taken me until now to know it for certain, but there could be no other explanation for how I felt.

I drew my wand and waved it over her, murmuring a diagnostic spell she herself had taught me. The result made me raise my eyebrows. _Not_ what I'd been expecting, not at all. She wasn't in any danger, though, or at least not in any more danger than _I_ was, just being here. I thought for a moment, weighing up what I should do next. There could be danger still; the responsible thing to do would be to take Charity and go to the Ministry, before whoever had done this to her came back - and only then return to investigate, preferably with a brigade of Aurors. But that wasn't what I wanted to do.

" _Expecto Patronum_ ," I murmured. The silver-white mist erupted from my wand and settled before my eyes into the shape of a sleek panther, poised to spring. "Go to Draco," I instructed the creature. "Tell him - tell him that the house is attacked. Charity is unconscious. I don't know where Dorado and Ginny are." The panther appeared to nod and then streaked away, impossibly fast, heading for Godric's Hollow or the Ministry, wherever Draco was now. He could decide whether to involve the Aurors - or to come alone to face an unknown evil together, just the two of us, as we had done so many times before.

That done, I turned my attention to Charity. What had been done to her was easily reversed, and after a few passes of my wand, her eyelids twitched and then opened. Beautiful bright green eyes blinked several times before fixing on me. "Oh, Theo, there you are," she breathed. "I... what happened?" I wasn't surprised that she didn't know; how could she? "The last thing I remember, I was talking to Dorado about - something, I don't remember. There was... we were drinking, waiting for news." She gasped suddenly, and seized my arm. "Andrew! Theo, did you find him? Is he okay?"

I winced; she was squeezing rather tight. "Yes, we found him. He's alive. Smith is dead." She started to smile, and I hated the fact that I was going to drive that smile from her face. "Don't - there's bad news, too. Terry is dead. Smith killed him." It hurt to say that out loud, to admit for the first time that he was gone. Back in the house at Godric's Hollow I hadn't had _time_ to feel the loss as anything more than a strategic consideration. Now it hit me full force, and I had to push the feelings down inside and reach for my Slytherin mask, because this really wasn't the time to break down. "There's more. Andrew - I don't even know how to say it..."

Charity grimaced. "The worg - it bit him, didn't it?" I was surprised by her insight, but perhaps I shouldn't have been; she'd always been clever, and she probably knew me well enough to know that there were few things other than her brother's death that I'd find so hard to tell her. She must have seen my expression, because she gave an ironic smile and said, "It was something that crossed my mind, you know. When you said you thought you knew why he'd been taken. It made sense to me, though I hoped it wasn't true."

I nodded. "I'm sorry. That's what I'd hoped, too." There was nothing I could say to make it better, so I didn't even try. "Come on, let's get you up. Something isn't right here, and we need to be ready to fight back if anything happens-"

At that moment, someone appeared with a _crack_ a few feet away from me, and I had already leapt to my feet and pointed my wand at the newcomer before I realised it was Draco. He stared at me, took in how alarmed I was, and looked a little shamefaced. "Sorry, Theo, I didn't think."

"Do you ever?" I asked, but he just rolled his eyes. "It's okay; my Patronus probably took _you_ by surprise, so I deserved it." I looked around. "Anyone else showing up for this party?"

"I told the Aurors, if that's what you're asking," Draco replied. "But I said I was going on ahead, to see if you needed any help with Charity. They might have wanted to argue, but I disappeared before they could." He smirked, and I couldn't help but smile a little myself. The best way to win an argument was to avoid it altogether. "They'll be here soon enough, I should think. As soon as they've got their act together, so probably about an hour or so."

"Oh, come on, Draco," I said, mock-chidingly. "I'm sure it won't be _that_ bad. Maybe half an hour." We both snickered, for a moment forgetting the gravity of the situation in our time-honoured pastime of sniping at the Ministry. Charity just rolled her eyes at us both and tried to get up; I held out a hand to help her, and between us we got her to her feet, ready for action. Or almost - she patted down her robes, feeling for her wand, but couldn't find it. I looked around on the floor where she had fallen, but I didn't see it there either. I cursed. "If it's not in your pockets, I don't know where it is. Blast it! I don't want you defenceless."

She gave a wry smile. "It's not my ideal situation, either," she said. "But we'll have to make the best of it." Apparently sensing my objections, she added, "Oh yes, Theo, I intend to come with you, wand or no wand. My mother is in danger, remember." I hadn't forgotten - but I, who had never known my mother as anything but a story and a face in photographs, had no idea what that would mean to her. Then I remembered Draco's response to _his_ mother's death, years before, and felt a touch guilty for even considering leaving Charity behind. Of course she wouldn't stay out of this; why should she?

"Okay, I won't argue." She looked surprised, but only smiled by way of reply. It was a smile I recognised; I'd seen a similar one on her father's face many a time, before a battle. Whatever Charity might claim to feel about war, she was very much Harry's daughter in how she responded when war was inevitable. "Let's go; we should search the house and then the gardens. I don't know if they'll have been taken anywhere else, but we should rule out Whitethorns before we do anything else. If they're not here, we'll wait for the Aurors to arrive to support. I am _not_ haring all over the country without proper backup."

Draco nodded grimly, and though he'd seemed like his usual self before, I could see the tension in his body now that I looked. His son, his only son, was missing. This had to be terrible for him, and I wondered how much strength it was taking him just to stand there and pretend that everything was alright. He saw me looking at him, and tried to smile. "Right, then. Let's stay together; splitting up would be stupid with only the three of us."

"And me without a wand," Charity put in. She still looked determined to come along, and it was honestly probably safer for her to do so. Draco and I could protect her if she was with us - though when I looked at Charity, I had a hard time imagining her _needing_ protection. "If there was anybody downstairs, they'd have heard us and attacked by now," she said, slowly, clearly thinking out loud. "So we should just go straight upstairs and look there, and then search the gardens if they aren't up there, as you said, Theo." She sighed. "Whoever they were, they're probably long gone, though."

"Don't say that." I wasn't so sure - but then, Charity did not know what had happened to her. There was no way that this could end well for both of my companions. Perhaps I should have told them right then and there, but explaining that would've taken time, and we didn't have nearly enough of that as it was. How long had we been gone? How soon after that had the attacker struck? I didn't know the answer to either question, but time was slipping away. "Never assume you won't have to fight." Draco snorted; but then, how many times had _he_ quoted proverbs from the war? "If we're going, let's go."

We went out into the hall and up the stairs, trying to tread as lightly as possible. I was afraid of what we might find - but at the same time, it felt completely ridiculous that this was happening _here_. Whitethorns wasn't the sort of place where people were attacked and would-be murderers lurked in upstairs rooms. Thinking about it - to avoid thinking about other things, worse things - I supposed I'd fought on stranger battlefields. But would there even be a battle? Had this been a fight at all? Or something else? It felt more like _disposal_. I shivered.

In the end, it was worse than I'd imagined. We reached Dorado's room, the third on the right. I had just enough time to notice that the door had been thrown back on its hinges before Draco, who was ahead of me, let out a terrible sound somewhere between a scream and a groan. Never before had I heard such a spine-chilling noise from my friend - but as I stepped up and looked around him, I saw why. Dorado lay motionless on the soft carpet of his room, and this time there could be no doubt of the fact that he was dead. No live person would lay like that; he looked like a puppet whose animation spells had failed. Lifeless.

It was cruel, senselessly cruel. That was all I could think. And Draco, my proud and noble friend, who in all the many years I had known him had never cried, collapsed in an undignified heap to the floor and sobbed his heart out. I didn't know what to do. I just stood frozen, staring at the body of a lively, intelligent sixteen-year-old boy, wondering how in the world such a thing could have happened. It didn't seem _possible_. I'd known Dorado since he had been a baby; he shouldn't have ended like this.

While I had stood immobile, Charity had crouched down next to Draco, talking quietly to him. I couldn't hear the words, but I knew that she had more experience in this field than I did. Talking to the bereaved was a necessary part of her job. It took bravery of a kind - not the kind usually favoured by Gryffindors, but bravery nonetheless. She knew what to say in this situation, and I did not. All I could think to do was take the handkerchief from my inner pocket and offer it to Draco. He took it with little more than a nod, but I knew that he would take it as a gesture of concern, the only one I was capable of making, or that he was comfortable with receiving.

I stepped around them and approached Dorado's body. Slumped untidily, as though he'd been blasted off his feet alive and been dead before he hit the floor. A Killing Curse, that was what had most likely ended his life. _Cruel_. I bent over him and touched his face. He was still warm, but cooling; he had not been dead long, but it was obvious that he was no longer alive. I closed my eyes and bowed my head, feeling the pain deep within for both Dorado and Terry. But I couldn't cry; _Draco_ had the right, but I did not. This was his son, his heir, his beloved child - and while I'd known the boy and cared for him, _my_ grief could hardly be the same.

"Vengeance," Draco growled, suddenly, and I looked up at him. His face was a mess of tears and anguish, but pure blind rage had taken up residence there, too. "We need to find who did this and make them _pay_." I understood the feeling, but we couldn't - I couldn't let him... Oh, who was I trying to fool? Anyone who would do this to a child deserved any pain that Draco could inflict. And few people could outdo a Malfoy when it came to inflicting pain.

"The gardens," I said, not voicing any of my other thoughts. "We still need to find Ginny, too." Charity nodded, grimly; she and I were both concerned for her mother, albeit for very different reasons. Draco didn't demur, but I knew he didn't care about Ginny at all. There was only room in his head for one thought right now, and that was to do violence to the person who'd cast the Curse that took his son's life away. I straightened up and left the room, and then we went down the stairs, all three of us, ready to confront whatever horror the gardens might hold.

Outside, the air was cold, and I pulled my cloak tighter around my body. Draco didn't; he looked as if he didn't notice the temperature, or anything else about his surroundings. I wished for a moment that we weren't pure-bloods and Slytherins, that I could reach out and comfort my friend in his suffering. But we were at least in some respects what we'd been raised to be, and I knew that even if _I_ could overcome my natural impulses enough to do anything, Draco wouldn't welcome it - or even want it. _No wonder the Muggleborn students think us cold-hearted._

Ginny was waiting for us in the nearest garden, sitting in a swing chair and fidgeting idly with her hair. Her wand hung lazily from her fingers. There was something different about her. She seemed colourless and distant, as though she was barely there at all. I had a very good idea why that should be. It wasn't an idea I _liked_ , but it explained a lot of things I hadn't quite understood until now. She looked straight at me, not even acknowledging Draco or her daughter, and her pale brown eyes chilled me to the core. "Hello, Theodore. Figured it out, did you?"

"Figured it - what?" Draco's voice was choked with anger. "It was you! _You_ killed Dorado!" And before I could stop him, he had his wand under Ginny's chin, pushing her head back uncomfortably. "You - you'll die _painfully_ , I swear it."

She shook her head, scornfully. "Yes, I killed him. Do you know why? It had to be this way."

Draco howled incoherently, and I could tell that the only reason nothing had yet happened to Ginny was because my friend couldn't focus his mind on any one terrible spell. I didn't have much time to talk to her. "I'd figured out that you killed him," I said, levelly. "I can think of several reasons why you might have done that, but it's probably best to get the truth from your own lips." I met her eyes, full force, and for once I hoped that the strange connection would open and I'd get to see what her soul was made of now - but we never get what we wish for, do we?

"I suppose it was too much to expect you to connect the dots, especially when it's your best friend's son," she said, contemptuously. I didn't like her tone, but I knew where she was leading. "He was a traitor, did you know that? He tried to kill Charity. I thought he _had_ killed her. My daughter." Her voice wavered slightly, and I saw that Draco had withdrawn his wand a little from her throat, his face showing confusion and horror. "I chased him upstairs. He tried to hide. All I wanted was to subdue him, I swear - but he fought back. And in anger... I killed him." She looked utterly devastated, but that was nothing to how I felt.

"Dorado, a traitor?" My voice cracked a little as I spoke. _No_. This couldn't be true. Not my friend's son, with his cheerful banter and near-obsessive study habits, his bright green eyes that shone with pride when he heard our tales of the war. But my treacherous mind told me otherwise. It could be; how many times had I seen him in places where he shouldn't be, this last term? I'd assumed - as any teacher would - that he'd been skulking around to see a girl. But what if that had been wrong? What if he'd been meeting someone else, someone sinister? I'd still seen a child when I looked at him - but he had been sixteen; the same age his father had been when _he'd_ betrayed Hogwarts to the enemy. It was possible.

"You heard what I told you," Ginny said, sounding tired and broken. I wasn't surprised; killing is never an easy thing, for those not fully consumed by darkness. "He attacked Charity. I saw him. Should I have waited for more proof than that?" Staring at her, I shook my head. I was cold, shocked, sick to my stomach. _I_ certainly didn't need any more proof. In my mind, I could see exactly what had happened, and my heart broke for them both. Charity, sliding insensible from her chair; Dorado, terrified, realising what was going on but not why, trying to ward off attacks in a fight he could never expect to win.

And Ginny - I was appalled. _Of course_ it was she. Who _else_ could Snape have meant? What other kind of love had that embittered old man ever recognised? I swallowed - my throat was suddenly dry - and said, "No. That isn't what happened." Charity and Draco both turned to look at me, and Ginny's eyes had never left mine; I had an audience for my _denouement_ , exactly as it should be. "It can't be true. You can't have seen Dorado attack Charity, because he didn't. She wasn't attacked by anybody. She was drugged, a potion slipped in her drink. _You_ drugged her, and then you killed Dorado, and the only thing I don't know is _why_."

She laughed. "I didn't expect that," she confessed. "I expected that you, or whoever came back, would assume she'd been stunned and just revive her. You cast a spell to find out, I assume? Oh, well, it doesn't matter. It was a long shot anyway." The smile that crept across her face then was one of the most unpleasant I'd seen in my life. "I'm not sure I should tell you why. Do I really owe you an explanation? I'll confess my crimes freely - I conspired with Zacharias Smith, and I killed Dorado Malfoy. In cold blood. Is that good enough for you? I think it will satisfy the Ministry. They won't care why."

A horrified silence followed, and then Draco raised his wand again, his eyes blazing with hatred as he prepared to snuff out his son's killer. Charity stopped him, reaching out and taking the wand from his hand, perfectly calmly. "Don't. She needs to stand trial." Then she stood in front of her mother and just stared at her, green eyes meeting brown. "You might not owe Draco or Theodore an explanation, Mother, but I'd like to think you'd at least tell _me_. Or do you really want your daughter to be ignorant of why you did these... these things?" She hung her head, and said, quietly, "I need to know the truth."

"I..." Perhaps Ginny could have kept her resolve had Draco or I tried to talk to her, but in the face of her daughter's pleading she fell apart. "You have to understand. When your father died - when I lost Harry - there was nothing left for me." Charity flinched; it was a cruel thing for a mother to say to her child. "I was _angry_ with the world to begin with, but then everything faded to grey. Life wasn't worth living, but I had to keep going just the same. And I realised how awful our world is, in a way I didn't when I was happy and had something to live for. Have you ever looked at it? All the injustice?"

She took a deep breath and continued, "I didn't know what to do about it, but I started to _hate_... well, everything. So when I met Zach again, and we talked - I think he realised I felt the same as he did, because he told me all about his son, what happened to him. We both hated the world, but he had a plan to do something about it. Right then and there we formed a bond. He would create a new Dark Lord to destroy what we hated, and I - I married his old friend so we would always have an excuse to stay in contact. I corrupted Ernie, not the other way around. Or rather, Zach and I did."

So, that was the explanation for the marriage that had never seemed to make sense to me. I'd always known she didn't really love Ernie. But of course, that wasn't the important part of what she'd said. "If I'd known you were hurting so much..." I began, but then found I couldn't finish the sentence. What did it matter now? _If I'd known what you were going through, I'd have tried to save you_. But would she have wanted me to try? She'd refused me years ago, but all I'd heard were the excuses - I hadn't heard the 'no'. The truth of the matter was that she'd refused to marry me because she hadn't wanted to, and she never had wanted to. I was surprised to find that, despite everything that had happened and everything she'd done, that still hurt.

"I don't think anything you could've done would have helped, Theodore," she said, and her voice was almost gentle. Then she went on: "Zach was a good ally at first. But I think he went mad, by the end. He was too caught up in destroying everything he hated to care about anything else. That's why he took Andrew. I'd known something like that might happen eventually, as Zach lost his grip on reality and forgot I was a friend. Because, you see, Zach always hated Harry. Andrew was Harry's son. It wasn't hard to see it coming." She pulled a face. "That's why I tried to stay at Hogwarts for so long; I was afraid to come home for Christmas." _And rightly so._

"You set Ernie up, didn't you?" I asked, and Ginny's eyes lit up.

"Of course I did." She sounded almost pleased with herself. "He was having doubts. We sent him to kill my brother, saying it was to frame Hermione so she couldn't help _you_. He didn't ever realise what we were really doing." Her terrible smile widened slightly. "I'm impressed, Theodore. I knew you were good, but I didn't know you were this good. You should've been an Auror. Although... maybe we wouldn't have lasted this long, Zach and I, if you were." I supposed it was a compliment, but it really didn't feel like one. She looked at all of us in turn. "Any more questions?" she asked, brightly.

Draco all but snarled at her. "Just one: why did you kill Dorado? You didn't have to. It was stupid! You gave yourself away - we'd never have known if you hadn't! So _why did you kill him?_ " His voice was desperate and devastated, and I knew that if Charity wasn't holding his wand, Ginny would have been cursed into several small pieces by now.

She likely knew that too. "I know I didn't have to," she said, simply. "But I'm so tired, and I was sick of pretending. Prison or death - either would be good for me." The smile twisted into a nasty, exultant grin. "Besides, it was worth it to see the look on your face when I told you he was a traitor. I've always hated you."

It was a horrible petty motive for a horrible petty crime - and I wasn't at all surprised when Draco, baulked of any sort of magical attack, threw himself bodily at her with an almost animal howl of rage. I stunned him in mid-air, and in the next breath conjured ropes to bind Ginny. She'd shown no signs of wanting to escape, but I might as well do the thing properly. I added a silencing spell for good measure; I didn't put it past her to try to goad Draco again, and that was the last thing my friend needed right now.

Once she was secured, I revived Draco and helped him to his feet. He tried to glare at me but couldn't; his heart wasn't in it. And then, to my surprise, he started to cry again. I had no idea what I ought to do, but something - the memory of Charity's tears months ago, perhaps - prompted me to put my arms around my friend and hold him while he sobbed miserably into my robes. He didn't fight me or try to back away, as I'd feared he would. He just held onto me as a drowning man would hold a lifebelt, while he cried like a child, inconsolably.

We were still standing like that when the Aurors arrived barely five minutes later. None of them said a word about it; they'd all seen such things before. They tactfully left us alone and went to speak to Charity. I don't know what she said to them, but they took Ginny away still bound in the ropes - and by that point that was the only thing I really wanted. For her to be gone. For this to be over.


	21. Epilogue: Life Must Go On

The first few months were the worst.

We'd lived through a bitter and terrible war together, Draco and I, but getting through that Christmas Day was the most difficult thing either of us had ever done. Alcohol was involved, copious amounts of alcohol. Perhaps that wasn't so surprising. I hadn't known Christmas presents could reduce a man to tears - but Dorado's presents, the presents that would never be opened, broke Draco all over again. Just seeing them was too much, a reminder of the boy they'd been bought for, a boy who was gone forever. He couldn't take that. No one could have.

In the end, I took them all outside and burned them. I could've destroyed them much more easily with magic, of course, but that was how I wanted to do it. Standing there and smelling the bitter smoke, I felt it sting my eyes - and for the first time, I allowed myself to cry, if only a little. For the most part, I'd kept all my own feelings locked away inside. Neither Terry nor Dorado had been mine to mourn. Knowing that I didn't really have the right to be as unhappy as I was didn't have any power to _stop me_ from feeling that way, though. The most I could do was keep my tears away from Draco, because my friend needed me to be the strong one - and given how seldom he admitted to needing anyone at all, I'd rather have _died_ than let him down or made his pain worse.

January came around and I went back to Hogwarts, though Draco did not. I knew in my heart that he probably never would, and it hurt to think that I was losing my best friend. We had spent every day together before, and I knew I would miss that. But how could he be expected to return to a job teaching children after what had happened to his own child? It was hard enough for me to step back out in front of a class and talk to them, to lecture them on the Dark Arts as if nothing had happened, as if the winter holiday had not changed me irreparably.

I looked at the sea of faces before me and thought of Dorado, his death and the one-sided duel that had most likely preceded it. At first, it had made me feel hopeless, and I questioned whether anything I ever taught would do anyone the least bit of good. That lasted a few weeks; it wasn't in my nature to despair for long. Once I'd shaken it off, I decided that I would teach the students everything I knew _for_ Dorado. It hadn't saved his life, but that didn't mean that the knowledge I could impart would never save anyone. I had to keep hoping, keep believing that there was some purpose in what I did. That preparing children for the worst would help them avoid it when they were older. That maybe one day, I'd redeem myself.

With a heavy heart, I advised Minerva to advertise for a new Potions Master.

I visited Draco whenever I could; he seemed to be losing touch with the world, and I was deathly afraid that he no longer wanted to live. If he... did something drastic, that would be on my conscience. I'd failed his son. There was no way I was failing Draco, too. Though I would never dream of saying the words out loud, I loved my friend dearly. I didn't want to lose him more than I already had. But I didn't know what to do to save him - so I did what I had always done during the war, whenever I had been at a loss for what I should do. I called Hermione.

Whatever she said or did, it worked. And for a while I was jealous; Draco started to come back to life, but he spent a lot of time with the bushy-haired witch, with barely any left over for me. It was a stupid way to feel, and unworthy of me. My friend seemed - well, not happy, but at least far less depressed, and I knew that I should've just been grateful for that. But things had changed. Dorado was gone. Draco was no longer at Hogwarts. Hermione had come back to the wizarding world, and spent many of her evenings alone with Draco, humorously abusing her now-late ex-husband well into the late hours. Or so he claimed, anyway.

It wasn't as if I spent all my evenings alone, either. Charity was still a part of my life, and we met whenever my presence wasn't required by the school or Draco. She had taken her mother's treachery hard, unsurprisingly, and I felt sorry for her; if she had been unable to escape her parents' legacy before, it would be still harder now. People wouldn't see her as I did - they'd see her sainted father or her cold-hearted mother, who had sat in contemptuous silence when sentenced to life imprisonment. Charity wasn't either of her parents and never had been, but it would be nearly impossible for her to step out of their shadows now.

Still, Harry had always met adversity head on, and had never given up the fight no matter how hopeless things had seemed. His children had always taken after him.

* * *

I watched the sun set, knowing that it was not long now before the full moon rose and brought with it the usual pain. It was summer and the nights were short, but they could never be short enough. Behind me, Charity was decanting the Wolfsbane potion into a glass with grim concentration, but when I looked at her she smiled. She'd never told me how much it cost her, how much it hurt her, to see her little brother transform every month. That, I supposed, was Gryffindor stoic bravery - but it looked so like Slytherin reserve from the outside that I could hardly tell the difference.

"Ready?" she asked, her voice light, giving no clues as to her true feelings.

"When you are." I turned away from the window.

Together we went through into the other room of the safe house. Andrew was sitting there, a book open on the table in front of him, apparently trying to do some homework before he... before the moon rose. He looked up when we came in and tried to smile, bravely, but I could see his fear on his face. In a way, though, I was almost grateful that he despised the curse. I had seen too much of what could happen when a werewolf embraced their animal side. Far too much. Looking at Andrew, I wondered what had become of Fairfax Smith. Would it even be possible to teach him how to be human, after all this time?

"That potion tastes disgusting," Andrew said, pulling a face. Seeing the dark look Charity gave him, he quickly added, "Yeah, I know I need to take it anyway, sis. Give it here." He took the glass and drained it dry in a few seconds. "Ugh. Horrid stuff."

"We're all sorry you need to take it, Andy," Charity said, gently.

The boy shrugged. "Yeah, well, life's not fair, is it?" The look on his face at that moment was moody and dark - but then, the sun had almost completely set, and the hour of his transformation was almost upon us. After a moment, he looked up at me and said, "Thank Prof- uh, Draco for me, will you, Theo? I - I don't know what it's like without the potion, but I don't really want to find out." His nervous grin looked unnatural and didn't reach his eyes. I felt terrible for him; he was too young for this. Why did such terrible things always seem to happen to such vulnerable children?

"I'll tell him, Andrew," I promised. It had surprised me when Draco volunteered to brew the complicated potion for the young werewolf; I had thought him too absorbed in his own misery to spare a thought for anyone else. But then, Andrew was Harry's son, and Draco had always said that he owed Harry a debt he could never repay. Maybe he thought that if he did this, that would go some way towards paying that off.

"Thanks." He turned his attention back to his books. "Look, I'm glad you're here and all, but if you let me work I can get my Transfiguration homework done by the time the moon rises."

Charity pulled me towards the door of the room. "Okay, Andy. We'll look in on you, after..." Her voice trailed off, but her brother nodded understanding. None of us said the stark words aloud, not if we could help it.

Back in the kitchen, she turned to me and said, "I don't know how he does it. How he keeps going. I don't know if _I_ could."

I took her hands in mine, gently. "He's strong," I said, confidently. "You both are." She shook her head and tried to protest, but I interrupted. "No, really. I know you don't believe you are, but it'd be hard for most people your age to cope with everything that's happened to you. I admire it, I really do." In an almost inaudible murmur, I added, "It gives me hope." Then I pulled her into my arms and held her close, feeling her body against mine, for once thinking of the future and not the past. I could never get the life I'd had before back. But life has a habit of surprising us - and maybe what I'd gained would make up for all I'd lost. Stranger things have happened, after all.


End file.
